


saltnhalo's tumblr ficlets: 2019

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, collated work, details in chapter notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-11-01 12:46:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 60,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20815403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: A collection of most/all of the ficlets I've posted to tumblr in 2019.Individual ficlet info in the chapter title/summary.





	1. Enochian

**Author's Note:**

> I originally had my tumblr fics all in one work, but it was getting way too big, so now I'm splitting them by year. This one is still going to end up being huge, but oh well... 
> 
> Tags and descriptions will be in the chapter notes, and there will be a link to each original work (if I can find it) if you'd like to go show it some more support.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel struggles with telling Dean how he feels.

The first time Castiel is able to put a name to his emotions, they’re driving through the middle of nowhere on their way back to the bunker after a hunt.

There’s blood on their clothes and dirt beneath their nails, but even so, as he watches Dean where he sits behind the wheel of the Impala, Castiel is suddenly struck by this previously-unnamed feeling. In the moonlight and the occasional headlights of the passing cars, even exhausted as he is, Dean is beautiful, soft in this quiet moment, and—

And Castiel loves him.

His head spins with the realization—who would have thought an angel would ever be capable of proper love? That’s certainly what it feels like, though, his heart pounding with the strength of his emotions.

_I love you_, he mouths, against the darkness and the yellow wash of headlights over the empty highway, testing out the shape of the words.

It feels right.

~

Even though Castiel knows, it takes him a long time to be able to _say _it.

This time, they’re tangled up in bed together, Dean’s bedsheets wrapped around them and sweat cooling on their skin. Castiel trails his fingers over Dean’s shoulder, smiling when he shivers at the touch. “Gettin’ all touchy-feely with me still, Cas?” Dean asks, his voice a low rumble and his smile curving against Castiel’s throat.

“You know I can’t resist,” Castiel says into Dean’s hair, because he _can’t_. Dean is beautiful, and he’s _Castiel’s_, and he’d never known he could feel so strongly for _anyone_, but here he is with his righteous man and even though he knows hundreds of languages and thousands of ways to say it, somehow the idea of Dean _knowing_just how he feels is—

It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. Humbling. Every emotion Castiel has ever felt, everything he’s ever experienced, it all pales in comparison to having Dean _know_.

_I need to tell him_, he thinks, and the words are right there on the tip of his tongue, but—

_“Olani hoath ol_,” he says instead, shaping his thoughts into Enochian. The air vibrates with the words’ power, and now that he’s said it out loud, it feels more tangible, more real, but he still doesn’t think he’s quite ready for Dean to know.

“What does that mean?” Dean asks, his words soft and slurred by tiredness.

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel whispers, even though it does, it matters more than anything in the whole of creation. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

_Perhaps next time_, he thinks.

~

When Castiel finally says it, the moment presents itself simply, riding in on the coattails of dawn and catching Castiel completely by surprise.

He’s thought for a while that the first time he tells Dean he loves him (at least, in English) should be some grand romantic gesture. A date to a nice restaurant, or a picnic under the stars, or parked at a lookout with the whole world spread out beneath them.

Instead, it happens in the kitchen of the bunker, as he watches Dean make coffee.

His boyfriend is wearing nothing more than his boxers and his favourite blue bathrobe as he fixes two mugs of coffee. One of the mugs is the one he got Castiel for Christmas, decorated with a few cartoonish bees and their dotted flight paths, and it’s all so perfect and domestic and lovely that it hits Castiel all at once.

Dean turns and hands him his mug of steaming hot coffee with a smile and a kiss to his cheek, and what Castiel means to say is “thank you,” but what he says instead is:

“I love you.”

Dean blinks at him, and then his mouth curves into a sweet, happy smile. He presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips, and when he pulls back, his expression is soft. His eyes sparkle. 

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181628234819/enochian-for-heidi-reads-them-all-the-first).


	2. President Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Service agent Dean is called in to see the President.

“Special Agent Winchester? Come with me.”

Dean straightens up at his post and raises his eyebrows. “Now, sir?” he asks of his boss—the gruff-looking Special Agent Singer who has been in charge of the Presidential detail for as long as anyone can remember. It’s not often that he directly singles out agents, so Dean can’t be sure if this is a good thing or not.

Singer just inclines his head silently. He’s not going to get any extra information, then—but he’s gotten used to that, after so long in the Secret Service. There are always things going on that are above his pay grade or none of his business. He steps away from his post and follows Singer when he turns and walks away, surreptitiously straightening his suit. Wherever they’re going, whoever Singer might be taking him to see, he needs to look like the damn professional that he is.

They walk in silence through the corridors of the West Wing, and Dean tries not to analyze the situation too much in his head, but when they reach the doors of the Oval Office—

“The President has requested to speak with you.”

Nervous butterflies erupt in Dean’s stomach.

President Novak is the kind of guy who will always take time out of his day to chat with his employees—be it a wave here, a ‘hello’ there, or even just the uncanny way he manages to remember little details about the lives of so many of his staff members. For someone tasked with running a whole country, it’s pretty fucking impressive.

But with Dean, it’s different. Always has been, ever since Dean started his detail here.

The first few times they’d met, he’d been little more than a fringe guard. Someone tasked with covering one of the many possible areas and angles, counting the number of tiles on the floor to keep himself entertained until the fleeting moment when the President and his inner team would pass.

Dean had seen him in photos, or on television, but the first time he met President Novak in person, that was it. His colleagues tease him about his unrequited crush, and he’s become the butt of many jokes after he’s been caught staring when his attention is elsewhere, or when he manages to stumble over the briefest of interactions that he has with the guy.

But not long after the first time that Dean crossed the President’s path, he was promoted to the recon team, and then to the inner team, tasked with being President Novak’s personal bodyguards. Being around the President more often makes it easier for Dean to talk to him (he’s _almost _managed to get over his awkwardness) and, admittedly, stare, but it also means that he gets the opportunity to pay closer attention to President Novak’s habits.

And if Dean happens to catch him staring once, or twice, or a dozen times throughout the day, well. It’s an interesting fact that he files away for a rainy day—when he’s not tasked with literally having the guy’s life in his hands. In this line of work, distractions and emotions are far from ideal.

Dean may have failed more than a little on both fronts, but he’d thought that he’d managed to do an okay job at hiding his infatuation from the man himself.

Considering he’s being called into the Oval Office alone and in the middle of his shift, he’s starting to suspect that that might not be the case.

Special Agent Singer steps back, taking up his position outside the office, and nods towards the closed doors. “Whenever you’re ready, Winchester.”

_Whenever you’re ready_. As if Dean feels ready in the slightest to face the most powerful man in the United States—the very man Dean has been maybe kind of pining over ever since he joined the President’s detail.

But he has to get it over with sometime, and decent guy or not, the President is not someone who should be kept waiting.

Dean takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and pushes the door open. 

Even though Dean has been working in the White House for more than a few months now, he’s only seen the inside of the Oval Office a handful of times, and this one is no less nerve-wracking than the others. In fact, it’s _more _nerve-wracking, because once he’s closed the door behind him and turned to face the rest of the room, it’s then that he realizes—it really only is him and President Novak in here.

The man himself stands up from his desk when he Dean enters, and for the first time Dean has ever seen, he actually looks a little… nervous. He straightens the cuffs of his shirt that are rolled halfway up his forearms and then touches his half-loosened tie as though he’d forgotten to tighten it before Dean entered—not that Dean minds in the slightest. With the messy hair and the more casual look, he might _almost _be able to forget that he’s standing in front of the President of the United States.

_Almost_.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Dean asks, and even though they’ve had countless comfortable interactions, he can’t help slipping back into the respectful address.

Novak gives him a quick smile and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Welcome, Special Agent Winchester. Please, have a seat. And I’ve told you, you’re welcome to call me Castiel.”

God, that shouldn’t be enough to make Dean’s heart beat faster. He nods jerkily and crosses the room to the desk, taking the offered seat. “Okay, si—_Castiel_.” He can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment—this is _not _how a Secret Service agent should be behaving._Get a fucking grip, Winchester_. “Why did you want to see me?” he asks, before he can make any more an idiot of himself.

Now that Dean is seated, Novak sits down as well, resting his clasped hands on his desk. He doesn’t fidget or look away, and there aren’t any physical tells that he can see, but Dean begins to get the niggling feeling in his gut that something is wrong.

“We need to talk about your position on my security team,” Novak says finally. His gaze is steady and even, but it feels like the calm façade is born from years of practice. Whatever direction this conversation is going in, the President seems… off. Not his usual self.

Dean swallows. “What do you mean, sir?”

The corners of Novak’s mouth turn down. His voice, when he next speaks, is soft, but his words are blunt.

“I’m having you removed from the White House security detail.”

Dean stares. He stares and he stares and he stares some more, because he can’t quite figure out what the _fuck _just came out of Novak’s mouth. He’s being removed? What? Why?

“Are you firing me?” he asks, dumbstruck. He knows he’s let himself be distracted by the President more than is probably reasonable, but he hadn’t thought he was _that _bad at his job. Why the fuck is he being removed from the detail?

There’s a hint of guilt in Novak’s expression, but still, he sticks to his guns. “I—not technically, but—“

“_Why?_”

President Novak closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in, then exhales. When he opens them, he’s watching Dean with a _look _in his eyes that Dean can’t even put a name to. “Because I can’t have you around me like this anymore, Dean.”

And suddenly this meeting has become incredibly personal.

“What do you mean, around you?” Dean asks quietly, leaning back in his chair. Novak’s words feel like a physical blow, one that has sent him reeling and that he feels he needs to recover from. He’d thought that they’d been friendly at the least, and had some kind of… _connection _at the most, but now…

Now it seems as though that’s not the case at all.

For the first time, Novak’s composure seems to crack. He runs his fingers through his hair, looks up at the ceiling for a second, then rests his arms back on the desk. “I _mean_,” he begins, sounding more vulnerable than Dean has ever heard him, “that while I’m working, I can’t have you near me. You’re distracting, Dean—I’ve seen you watching me, I’ve seen how you look at me and heard how to talk to me, and I can’t get it out of my head. It puts me in a difficult position, because I can’t afford to be distracted or worrying while I’m supposed to be working. I can’t concentrate when I know you’re close by, part of my security team, putting yourself in harm’s way because of _me_.”

“I do it because it’s my _job_,” Dean protests hotly, his cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. It’s clear that the President wants nothing to do with his stupid infatuation, but Dean doesn’t protect him because of some fucking crush, he does it because he took an oath to serve his country and if this is how he does so then so fucking be it.

Novak raises his hands placatingly. “I know,” he acknowledges, “and you’re very good at what you do. But you… you can’t say you haven’t noticed it. Neither of us are working as well as we should, and we can’t keep operating under these conditions—you distracted from your job and me constantly worrying about what could happen if my life really _were _to be threatened.”

“I’d protect you!” Dean snaps, more forcefully than he meant to. “I might have a dumb crush, okay, but I’d still take a bullet for you. I’d still be able to protect you and do my job.”

“And that’s exactly why I can’t keep you on my team!” Novak shoves back from his desk and stands, palms planted flat on the table as he leans forward towards Dean. His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and voice shaking enough that it makes Dean think _fuck, this is really serious_. “Because it’s bad enough to know that there are people out there whose job it is to die in my place, but knowing that _you’re _one of those people? If you died protecting me, Dean, I would never forgive myself.”

_What?_

Castiel’s last words echo through Dean’s head in the ensuing silence that stretches out between them. The President’s ragged breathing is the only thing that fills the air—and Dean feels as though he’s holding his breath, as though he’s not quite sure what just happened or, more importantly, what all of it _means_.

“You’d never forgive yourself… If I died?” he asks, his words quiet. “Why me?”

Slowly, all the fire and the determination drains out of Castiel. He sits back down, and when he looks in Dean’s direction, he can’t look him in the eye. Instead, he focuses on a point just over Dean’s right shoulder and addresses that.

“Because I like you, Dean. I like you a lot. And every night, I fall asleep wondering if tomorrow will be the day you’re forced to put your life on the line in exchange for mine, and I feel sick at the thought of it.” He looks down at his hands, folded tightly together on the table in front of him. “I understand if that makes you uncomfortable. If you’re not fully interested in having a relationship with a man, or if my feelings are too strong for you. I would understand if you wanted to resign based on what I’ve just told you. But I can’t…”

His voice cracks.

“I can’t keep you on as part of my security team. It’s more than I can take.”

He finishes talking and, once again, there’s that fucking silence. The silence that seems so _full _and so _heavy _that it drapes around Dean’s shoulders and smothers him until he can barely organise his thoughts, until all he can think about is the way Castiel had _sounded _when he’d told Dean that. Like he was watching his world fall apart in front of his eyes.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“So, just to be clear,” he says. “You’re firing me because you’re into me, and knowing that I’m tasked with protecting you and putting myself in danger for you is worrying you. Yes?”

Novak nods. Fuck, this is so much more touchy-feely than Dean is ever comfortable getting, but for once, he might not be the most emotionally constipated person in the room. It sounds like they’ve both been too stupid to make the first move—though, why the _President of the United States _is into someone like _Dean_, he’s not quite sure.

“And if I wasn’t working for you, you’d take me out on a date. Yes?”

Novak pauses, lips pressed into a thin, nervous line, then says, “Yes.”

Slowly, Dean lets himself smile, until his lips are curled up into a wide grin and his heart is double-beating happily in his chest. “In that case, I quit,” he says, standing up from his chair. He reaches for someone’s discarded business card on the corner of the desk and a pen, and scribbles his number onto it before handing the card to a dumbstruck Castiel. “And you can take me out for dinner on Friday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182070078934/for-rainbowskittle-special-agent-winchester).


	3. Beekeeper Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets the eclectic new beekeeper at the local farmers' market.

Every Saturday, Dean goes down to the local farmers’ market.

It’s not, contrary to Sam’s gloating, because he’s ‘finally realized that you can’t live entirely on cheeseburgers, Dean,’ nor is it because he has the money to buy produce that’s locally grown (he doesn’t, but he still tries to buy a thing or two here and there).

No, he goes to the farmers’ market because of the beekeeper.

The beekeeper is new to town, and had moved himself and his apiary into the old farming property down by the river. Dean had found out about his stall, ‘The Business of Bees,’ when Sam had dragged him down to the farmers’ market two months ago so that he could buy his organic kale, or some shit. Honestly, he doesn’t remember much from that day apart from piercing blue eyes and a voice like whiskey over gravel that has stuck with him every night since.

Ever since he discovered the farmers’ market and the eclectic, attractive beekeeper, Dean has been head over heels. He _knows _that he’s into this guy, and he would _love _to take him out to dinner sometime, but… he’s got absolutely no idea _how_. All the guys he’s ever been with have started out as friends or hookups, but to ask a stranger out on a date?

Dean views himself as a confident man, but he’s got zero experience in this area.

So he does his best to muddle his way through—maybe it’ll be easier if they start out as friends?

The second time he had visited (_without _his nosy moose of a brother), he had found out that the beekeeper’s name was Castiel. Every week after that, he would make a few minutes of small talk, then buy a jar of honey before his cheeks could get too red and beat a hasty retreat.

Castiel’s jokes are terrible and he’s always grumpy before he’s had his morning coffee and he doesn’t understand half of the pop culture references Dean makes, but that’s okay, because Dean is smitten and he spends his whole week looking forward to Saturday, when he can talk to Cas and see him smile.

(And then go home and stare forlornly at the ever-expanding shelf of honey that he’s collecting, because even though there’s no way he can eat it all himself, it’s weird to hang around and talk to the guy without buying anything, right?)

The weeks turn into months, and a few minutes of small talk gradually becomes over an hour of talking, interrupted only whenever Castiel has to serve another customer. Dean watches him smile and talk with animation about his bees and his honey and thinks, _wow, I really am fucked_.

Today isn’t the right time to ask Cas out—the guy seems nervous about something, and Dean doesn’t want to catch him in a bad mood just in case everything goes pear-shaped, because even if Cas doesn’t want to date him, he hopes that they can at least stay friends. It’s starting to get late now, and Dean has been here for almost two hours. Before he can make his usual honey purchase and say goodbye to Castiel for another week, though, Cas stops him in his tracks.

“I have something for you,” he says, his cheeks tinged faintly with pink as he rummages around behind his table. When he pops back up, it’s with a small, cloth-wrapped bundle in his palms. Dean tries not to shiver at the brush of Cas’s fingers as he hands over the gift.

It’s solid, but not heavy, and Dean can feel Cas’s gaze on him as he unwraps the cloth with curious fingers, draping the fabric off the edges of his hand to reveal the gift.

In Dean’s palm is a heart-shaped beeswax candle. Engraved carefully into the wax in cursive are the words: _Bee mine?_

It’s cheesy and adorable and when Dean leaves the farmers’ market another hour later with the candle in his pocket, Cas’s number in his phone and a date scheduled for tonight, he can’t keep the smile off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182130435419/congrats-on-500-followers-my-one-word-prompt-is).


	4. Acrobat Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, in town with his circus troupe, meets a beautiful, tattooed bartender named Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [c-kaeru's](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com) art of [tattooed bartender Cas](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/post/182169635001/i-rewatched-the-greatest-showman-and-had-some).

Dean and his troupe don’t spend too much time in any city.

Their talent and prowess makes them highly sought after, and they’ve travelled almost all the way across America, putting on performances in every city they pass. They arrive, set up, dazzle the crowd for a handful of nights, and then as quickly as they had appeared, they disappear again, bound for another city, another audience, another world of their very own creation.

Amongst all the bustle of a circus troupe, though, the performers manage to find plenty of time to relax. Dean’s favourite way to spend his downtime is with a nice, cold beer and the company of his friends, in whichever bar takes their fancy that night. They’re well known, especially Dean with his pretty face and acrobatic prowess, and it often means that they have no shortage of admirers wherever they go. Most of the time, those who proposition him are gently turned down, but on the rare nights when there are no performances scheduled for the next day, some attractive guy or girl may get lucky.

Tonight is one of those nights, when the performers can let loose a little.

They’ve found a bar in the inner city, packed so tightly with locals that Dean and his friends have to squeeze their way in amongst them. Once they’re recognized as being part of the circus visiting town, room is quickly made for them, and they end up at the bar, chatting amiably with those who have taken an interest in them. Dean rests his forearms on the bar and waits for the dark-haired bartender to turn around so that he can order himself a drink.

When the man finally turns, a bottle of alcohol held in each hand, Dean’s jaw drops.

He’s not quite sure where to look first, his eyes raking over the man as he tries to take in as much as possible, in as short a time as possible. The white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose lines of black ink on his forearms? The suspenders that perfectly frame his broad shoulders? The dark, mussed hair or the confident way he moves or the blue eyes that roam over the patrons and eventually settle on Dean?

_Fuck_, they’re making eye contact now, and Dean is still staring. He tries his best to pick his jaw up off the top of the bar and instead gives him what he hopes is a charming smile—though his brain is still fucking scrambled, so he has no idea if he’s actually managed it.

The bartender holds Dean’s gaze for a long moment, then sets aside the bottles and walks over to where Dean is sitting with even, deliberate steps.

“What can I get you?” he asks, and as if his appearance hadn’t been enough to pull Dean in completely, his voice is like whiskey and sex and it sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine.

“I, um,” he says eloquently, and the corners of the man’s mouth turn up in the faintest hint of an amused smile. Dean bites his bottom lip. “Whatever you recommend?”

The faint smile becomes something more solid, and the guy nods his head. “I can do that.” He turns away and reaches for one of the bottles on the shelf above his head. Dean works with a lot of pretty, attractive people for a living, but none of them even come close to this man who has captivated Dean in a single moment, with his tattoos and his sex-hair and the quiet, confident way he holds himself.

Dean can only watch, mesmerized, as he scoops a handful of ice into a glass, spins the bottle casually against his palm, then uncaps it and pours out a few fingers of whiskey. The golden ambience of the bar lighting illuminates the liquid and haloes the beautiful man, and it takes all of Dean’s willpower not to blurt out an invitation back to his hotel right in that moment.

Instead, he waits until the man returns with his drink, the glass slid across the bartop with a confident hand and a wink that takes Dean’s breath away, and then he says: “I’m Dean. What’s your name?”

It’s not the smoothest line he’s ever used, but his brain is a little too overwhelmed to come up with anything that’s not short, sweet and to the point.

Luckily, the guy doesn’t seem to mind. He leans his hip against the bar and folds his arms across his chest (black ink contrasts beautifully with the white shirt and suspenders, and Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“My name is Castiel. You can call me Cas.”

However straightforward Dean’s introduction may have been, it must have worked. They spend the rest of the night talking, in between Cas having to serve customers, and when the bar finally closes in the early hours of the morning, Dean is one of the last patrons to leave. When he does, Cas accompanies him—though it takes a while longer than anticipated to reach Dean’s hotel room, since they get a little distracted in the neighbouring alleyway by kisses and wandering hands. They’re disheveled even before they get back to the hotel, and there Dean spends the rest of the night showing Cas just how beneficial it is to be a professional acrobat.

When he wakes up the next morning, Cas is still there, sleep-drowsy and sprawled out on the white sheets. Every waking minute after that night that isn’t spent working, they spend together, the two of them almost inseparable. Cas is beautiful, yes, but he’s also quick-witted with the driest humour Dean has ever encountered, and so quietly _kind _that it makes Dean melt.

He knows he can’t leave Cas behind—the very thought of it makes his heart ache in his chest. On their last night in the city, he stays up late with Castiel, the two of them making love and then talking well into the early hours of the morning.

The next day, when the circus packs up and moves on once again, it’s with a talented bartender accompanying them—a man with an array of unique tricks who is more than capable of holding his own amongst the troupe, and just so happens to be the star acrobat’s new boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182190205489/c-kaeru-i-rewatched-the-greatest-showman-and-had).


	5. Crow Familiar Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventures of witch Dean and his crow familiar Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first ficlet has art from the amazing c-kaeru, so go give it a rebagel to show her how much you love it! ([art](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/post/183360200946/and-then-one-morning-dean-wakes-up-to-find-that) by [c-kaeru](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com))

Every morning, there is a crow that comes to Dean’s window.

Sometimes it’s early, before the sun has fully risen, and Dean will wake to find a memento on his windowsill; a coin, a key, a particularly pearlescent button. Other times, the crow arrives when he’s awake, announcing its presence with a _caw _muffled by whatever it’s holding in its beak.

Those times, Dean can’t help but grin fondly. He’ll set aside whatever herbs or potion he’s working on and make his way over to the window, unlatching and opening it with a wave of his fingers since he’s usually too eager to wait. He’s got a collection of trinkets like these now, and every morning he looks forward to the visit from his crow to see what the new dawn will bring. Every familiar courts their chosen witch differently, and the crow’s method is just so damn sweet—especially with the way it ruffles its wings proudly whenever Dean says “thank you.”

Their little dance continues for several weeks. Just like the variance with the crow’s arrival time, whether or not it hangs around also varies. Sometimes it leaves right away, giving Dean a somewhat-apologetic _caw _before hopping off the windowsill and flying away.

Other times, though, it stays.

It’ll keep Dean company as he works, nestled in a puff of black feathers by the open window or perched on the back of Dean’s chair, curiously watching everything he does—especially if he’s working with metal or glass that happens to catch the light nicely. He gets used to the crow’s visits, and the ever-expanding collection of feathers and coins and beads and whatever else the crow deems fit to be given to Dean as a gift.

And then one morning, Dean wakes up to find that the visitor perched on his windowsill is no longer a crow at all.

Instead, there is a man lounging on the sill of the open window, back leaning against the side of the windowframe and one leg dangling off the edge into the open air. His hair is as dark as his feathers were, and he’s barefoot and bare-chested, wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans that hug strong thighs and a fantastic ass.

Dean sucks in a shocked breath, and when the man turns his head sharply, his wide eyes are the exact same shade of blue as those of Dean’s crow.

“It’s you,” Dean breathes, and the man’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. He swings his legs over so that he’s sitting facing Dean, his bare feet almost brushing the floor of Dean’s bedroom.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is deep and serious, but there’s a lightness in his eyes that makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat. “It’s me. My name is Castiel.”

“I’m Dean.”

The smile becomes wider, more solid. “I know.”

_Of course he knows, he’s been visiting me for the last month in his animal form_. Dean feels his cheeks flush red, and he clears his throat. “Is, uh. Is there a reason you’re… like this today?” He gestures to all of Castiel, from his rumpled hair to his bare chest to the jeans that hug his legs in all the right places. _Fuck_.

Castiel reaches for his pocket, but whatever he pulls out stays hidden away in his carefully-curled fist. “There is,” he confirms, but now there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I… I’ve been courting you as my witch for a while, and I really like you, and I was thinking that maybe…”

He trails off and swallows, as though his words are failing him. Instead, he slowly uncurls his fingers, until Dean sees what he’s been keeping hidden in his hand.

It’s a necklace, made of silver-threaded black cord. Hanging from it is a coin, polished so brightly that it gleams even in the early morning sunlight, and a single blue-black feather.

“I thought you might like to be my witch,” Castiel says quietly.

There was never any doubt in Dean’s mind that, when this moment came, he’d turn the crow familiar down.

“Of course I will, Cas.”

~~~

“Cas. Babe. You know I need you there tonight.”

The crow perched at the foot of Dean’s bed ruffles its feathers and lets an indignant-sounding _caw_. Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I know you don’t like ‘dressing up,’ but I can’t help it. It’s a big event, and if I want a chance at tenure, I need to be there, and I can’t exactly show up without my familiar.”

Cas makes a low, unhappy sound, and then between one second and the next, he shifts. There’s a frown creasing his brows, and his arms are folded tightly across his chest. His clear displeasure helps to distract Dean from the fact that he is _very _naked. “I never enjoy these events,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough from having spent most of the day in his crow form. “I don’t like wearing suits. They’re too tight and you don’t let me put shiny things on them.”

Dean can’t help himself—the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. “That’s because if I let you do that, you’d end up wearing a disco ball as a suit,” he teases gently, sitting down on the bed next to Cas. “I know you said you didn’t want to go to any more events, but this one is really important to me. I want you to be there and I don’t want you to be unhappy. I don’t mind what you wear as long as it’s formal and you’re not blinding the other guests, okay?”

Cas blinks. For a few seconds, he regards Dean, his head tilted to the side, and then he smiles. It’s big and wide and melts Dean’s heart immediately. “You mean that?” Cas asks, his smile growing impossibly brighter when Dean nods. 

No matter how tonight turns out, he knows he’s made the right call here.

~ 

They almost hadn’t made it here tonight, and for no reason other than Dean’s libido and how fucking _good _Cas looks in formalwear.

Dean hadn’t been sure what to expect when he’d given Cas free reign over his wardrobe, but god, he hadn’t been expecting this. As he steps out of the Impala, Castiel is immediately captivating in his form-fitting slacks and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up partway, but what makes his outfit is his black coat.

It buttons together in the front—elegant and silver to match the necklace that hangs from Cas’s throat—but leaves his arms free to move. Behind him, the hem of his coat is cut low and dramatic, almost cape-like where it ends at his mid-calf. It’s black all over with silver accents to match the jewelry on Cas’s wrists and fingers and the silver glitter in his hair and it’s a testament to how little Dean has been able to take his eyes off his familiar that he doesn’t even care that that fucking glitter is going to end up in their bed tonight.

Cas straightens up and takes a moment to check over his outfit and meticulously ensure that everything is in its right place. There’s no doubt that anyone watching would immediately pin him as a crow familiar, and he wears his identity like a badge of pride. When he turns to look over at Dean, his eyes are so bright and _happy _that Dean regrets ever insisting that he wear a regular suit to these events.

“How do I look?” he asks.

Unable to find any words that could possibly describe just how much he loves Cas in this moment, Dean simply pulls him close, runs his fingers through Cas’s silver-glittered hair, and kisses him.

~~~

In the light of the moon, Cas is a different creature entirely.

He is dark-washed feathers tipped with silver as he wheels overhead, wings stretched out to blot out the stars and, sometimes, the moon. His shadow passes over the grass around Dean, over his outstretched hands, over his face when he tips it up towards the sky. The full moon cannot be wasted, one of the few times that Dean is able to complete this particular spell, but the call of his familiar is, at times, too strong.

While Dean works, Cas flies, carefree and happy as he dances in the cold night air. Dean can practically _feel_it radiating off him in the loops and spirals he makes and the dramatic flicks of his feathers. “Show-off,” he mutters under his breath as he watches, cauldron in front of him temporarily forgotten where he kneels in the damp grass and looks up to where the feathered shadow dances across the sky.

Castiel just _caw_s, cocky and relaxed. _You’d better get back to work, that spell isn’t going to cast itself_, he teases, stretching out his wings and falling lazily into a dive.

Dean flips his familiar off. “You’re not exactly helping,” he points out, but there’s a curve to his lips as he says it. “I thought having a familiar was supposed to make things easy, not be a distraction.”

Cas rolls in midair with a twitch of his wings as he nears the ground—before he makes contact, though, mere feet away from Dean, he shifts, and touches down gracefully on the grass. The last few yards are closed by six feet of gorgeous, _human _familiar. “I’m distracting, am I?” he asks with a grin, coming to a stop in front of Dean’s cauldron and tilting his head.

He’s _really _naked. Dean definitely can’t be expected to concentrate like this.

“Uh, kinda,” he points out, leaning his hands on his thighs and looking up at Cas. The moonlight gleams off his ear piercings and the necklace that he never takes off. “You do remember that I can only do this spell once every month, right?”

“I know.” Cas looks up at the moon, eyes closed for a moment, as though he’s savouring the silvered wash across his skin. “I just like being out here. Your magic is so strong on these nights that I can feel it all the way through my own.” He shivers. “I just makes me want to… _fly_.”

Dean’s heart thuds unevenly in his chest at the sight of Cas, resonating with the power of their magic and so _content_beneath the full moon. Unable to help himself, he stands, ignoring the wet patches on the knees of his jeans in favour of crossing the short space between them and pulling Cas in for a kiss.

Castiel lets out a soft, surprised sound, but melts into it easily, one arm curling around Dean’s waist and the other hand sliding blissfully into his hair. Dean’s magic simmers under his skin, and between that and the sinful way Cas is kissing him right now, his toes curl against the wet grass. When they separate, he’s breathing hard. “See?” he points out, leaning into the touch of Cas’s hand in his hair, a breathless grin curling his lips. “Distracting.”

Cas smiles and kisses him again—chastely, this time, though it still leaves Dean wanting more. “I’ll get out of your hair, then,” he says, and the only warning Dean gets is the cheeky spark in his eye before he shifts, and Dean is left holding nothing more than empty air.

“You son of a bitch,” he mutters to himself, though he can’t help but grin at the _caw _Cas gives as he takes to the sky once more.

_You love me_, his impertinent familiar says across their bond.

Dean smiles, watching him play amongst the stars and moonlight.

_I do_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the originals [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182497075299/palinoia), [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/183113164999/nazlanmak) and here.


	6. Retirement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel finally retire.

When the day comes for Sam and Dean to retire, Castiel isn’t sad about it at all.

They had started out as young men, fit and stubborn, with something to prove to a world that felt as though it was against them even from the start. Now, though, they’re older, and while they aren’t necessarily _wiser _(not even last week, Dean had insisted on chasing after a ghoul and ended up confined to the couch with a sore back for the next two days), they _have _changed. They’re more rational, more careful, and arguably less bull-headed.

When Castiel had gently suggested that perhaps it was time to leave the hunting to the next generation, it took Dean a little while to accept it, but eventually, he did.

(With the stipulation that they’re not hanging up their hats _just _yet, and should the world need them, they’ll be more than ready to come back out of retirement. Castiel had just hummed and nodded in the non-verbal equivalent of a “yes, dear.”)

At first, he can tell that Dean feels a little odd about it. Sam decides to stay in the bunker for a while, at least so that he can get the next generation of hunters set up in there, but Dean and Castiel move out to a little house not even thirty minutes’ drive away. It’s the first time that Dean has lived like this since Lisa, and Castiel tries not to feel jealous about _that _memory.

It turns out, though, that staving off jealousy isn’t too difficult when he’s falling asleep next to Dean in their new bed in their new house, or when they’re slowly unpacking their belongings both new and old, or when they sit out on the back porch for the first time and watch the sunset with a beer and a home-cooked meal in front of them.

The days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months, and their little house becomes the norm. Dean sets up a workshop in the garage, making tech for Sam to distribute to the younger hunters, or slowly restoring the few classic cars he’s working on. Castiel takes over the backyard, planting a garden and a vegetable patch and setting up a little beehive in the back corner. They often spend their afternoons out there together; Dean sitting on the back porch with a book and Castiel tending to the pumpkins that, if Dean gets his way, will soon find themselves as part of a pie.

It’s quiet and domestic and not at all like the life they’ve led before—Dean for fifty years and Castiel for countless millennia—but finally, they have something that’s _theirs_. They don’t have to worry about saving the world, and even though they’re always ready and their house is painstakingly protected, their life is quiet. Peaceful. Uneventful. For the first time, Castiel has a chance to just _be _with Dean, without distraction.

And for the first time in a long time, they are truly _happy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	7. Stable boy Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, a stable boy, falls in love with a prince.

Dean has been around horses all his life. Even before he could walk, his dad would sit him in front of him when he went riding, and when Dean turned two, he learned how to ride on a fat little pony named Dodger who shook him off as often as he could. When he turned eight, he started helping his dad around the stables.

His first memory of meeting the royal family is from when he was nine years old.

They had spent the entire morning grooming each one of the horses and cleaning the stable, and his father had dressed him in his finest clothes (a half-decent tunic and a pair of breeches without stains on them). Dean had stood with the rest of the stable staff while a red and gold-draped procession had made its way down from the palace.

The royal family had barely even looked at Dean and his father and the other staff, but Dean hadn’t been paying much attention to what the adults were doing, anyway. This was more finery than he had ever seen in his life, and he was mesmerized by the richness and the shine of it; the way the sunlight glinted off golden crowns and fabric whiter than the clouds above.

But in amongst all the beauty and the grandeur was something that didn’t quite fit in.

A young boy, about Dean’s own age, dressed head to toe in golds and reds and whites, looking for all the world as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

When he caught Dean looking, he smiled and raised his hand in a tentative wave, and thus was the beginning of the end for Dean Winchester.

Ever since that day, the two have become fast friends. Castiel visits the stables whenever he can, and sometimes Dean sneaks up to the castle to meet him in the kitchens, but never ventures further than that. Friend of the crown prince or no, he knows the places that are above his status. No matter how much Castiel asks him, Dean refuses.

But they have plenty of fun outside the castle walls. Dean teaches Castiel to ride, Castiel teaches Dean to read and, slowly, to write. They go hunting, and swimming, and often simply lie together beneath the sun, Castiel reading to Dean and Dean barely able to focus on the words for the beautiful sound of his voice.

Castiel is Dean’s first kiss.

The years wear on, and the two of them continue to be inseparable. Wherever one goes, the other is often not far behind, and they spend more than a few nights together in the bed in Dean’s quarters. Those years are the best years of Dean’s life.

Dean turns seventeen—in a year, he will take over his father’s role as manager of the royal stables, and he is eager for it. Castiel’s eighteenth birthday nears, and as it does, Dean finds himself alone more and more each day, as his friend (lover?) is heaped with more and more responsibilities. He tries not to worry about it—Cas will come back to him. Cas always comes back.

And then, one day, on a day that they’re down by the lake and Castiel has been uncharacteristically quiet, the final blow falls.

“I’m getting married after my birthday.”

And Dean’s heart breaks.

After the confession, they spend every possible waking moment together, but Dean can still feel Cas slipping away. Now that he’s older, he’s taking up more responsibility at the palace, and John is growing too old to fulfil all his duties as master of the stables, so Dean takes on part of his role. They still _want _to be together, and Dean can feel it whenever he’s with Cas, in every touch, every kiss, every word. Sometimes he catches Cas looking at him, when he thinks Dean doesn’t see, and his expression is so sad that it rips Dean’s heart apart.

But as much as they wished they had more time… they simply don’t.

Cas’s eighteenth birthday comes, and the celebrations up at the palace seem extravagant and fantastic, but Dean, of course, isn’t invited. Even though he’s the prince’s best friend, his confidant, his lover, there is no place for him among all that royalty. Instead, he sits on the paddock fence and watches as fireworks explode overhead, silent tears sliding down his cheeks.

Just after midnight, Cas slips down to the stables and into Dean’s bed. They make love in the moonlight that filters through the shuttered windows of Dean’s loft, and afterwards Dean tries to hold back his tears. “I love you,” he whispers, against Cas’s shirt, into the quiet of the night, and those three words feel so achingly fragile. It’s the first time he’s said them, but it’s also his last chance, and he _needs _to free the feeling in his chest; one of hummingbird wings and the wretched weight of inevitability.

Castiel does not say it back, but he presses his face into Dean’s shoulder and sobs, and Dean knows that he cannot. His tears, his grief, are answer enough.

When the dawn breaks, and Castiel slips out of Dean’s bed just as quietly as he had arrived, Dean wishes with all his heart that he had the power to make Cas stay. But that had never been an option, not even from the beginning, and Dean knows this. Had known it all along, even now, as he lies in an empty bed with a broken heart.

Because no matter how much Dean wishes they were anything else, Castiel is a prince, and Dean will never be anything more than a stable boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	8. College party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is pursued by an alpha at an end-of-college party, and his boyfriend lays a not-so-subtle claim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [NadiaHart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiaHart/pseuds/NadiaHart)'s birthday! <3 <3

Dean’s toes dig into the sand as he dances, the flames of the bonfire lighting up the beach and flickering out once as they stretch up towards the star-strewn sky. The air smells like smoke and the sea breeze and the scents of almost a hundred people, dancing along to the music that emanates from the speakers placed further up the beach. This is the best way to celebrate the end of another semester and another year at college.

Dean isn’t usually the dancing type unless he’s got a few drinks in him, but right now he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed, and he lets himself move along to the music in the middle of the dancing crowd. To let go like this, to not have to worry about anything and just live in the moment, just _feel_… it’s so relaxing.

Well, it would be if not for jerk alphas who can’t take a hint.

This one in particular has had his sights set on Dean from early in the evening, and hasn’t been picking up what Dean’s putting down: namely, that he’s _not interested_. Instead, he keeps watching Dean, trying to buy him drinks while they were all at the bar further up the beach, or attempting to initiate stilted conversation over the loud music that makes it nearly impossible. Every time, Dean has politely turned him down, but that just doesn’t seem to be getting through this alpha’s thick skull. For fuck’s sake, he’s not even Dean’s _type_.

Right now, he’s dancing closer again, and Dean can feel his gaze on the back of his neck. He’s very close to telling the alpha that if he tries to come on to Dean one more time, he’ll spartan kick him into the fucking ocean, but any kind of confrontation is going to make a scene and that’s just really not what Dean is after tonight.

He gives the guy one more chance to keep his dignity intact, and when he feels a presence directly behind him, he carefully slips away into the crowd right before the alpha can try to start dancing with him. A girl—beta, by her scent—shares a sympathetic look with him, and they roll their eyes together. _Some people_.

Before the alpha figures out where he’s gotten to, and Dean is forced to put a stop to this bullshit that’s honestly dampening his good mood, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Just like that, his mood lifts again, and he grins as he pulls out his phone to check who’s texted him.

_Just got here after work. Waiting by the bonfire, I’ve got a beer for you :)_

“Fuck yeah,” says Dean to no one in particular, his words drowned about by the sound of the music and the crowd drunkenly singing along. He slides his phone back into his pocket and starts to pick his way back through the crowd, towards where the flames of the bonfire lick up towards the night sky.

There are benches and beach chairs set up around the fire, and it only takes Dean a few seconds to pick out who he’s looking for. Cas is lounging on one of the beach chairs, barefooted and in a short-sleeved button-down that’s open to expose his throat. The firelight plays over his skin and illuminates his blue eyes, and when he catches sight of Dean, his face lights up.

Dean’s heart thuds giddily in his chest, and he picks his tipsy way through the crowd and over to where his boyfriend is sitting. “Hey, babe,” he says, sprawling onto Cas’s lap without any kind of grace or composure and winding his arms around Cas’s neck. “How was work?”

Castiel smiles and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him in closer and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Tiring,” he murmurs against Dean’s skin, “but I’m glad I could make it, even for a little bit. It feels so nice to be done with classes.”

Dean hums his agreement and tilts his head, nosing up underneath Cas’s jaw. Beneath the scents of smoke and alcohol, he still smells fresh, like thunderstorms and the earth after rain. He breathes in his boyfriend’s scent and feels his whole body relax. “I’m glad you’re here too,” he mumbles.

“You haven’t been having fun without me?” Cas teases—he knows full well that Dean arrived with a bunch of their friends, and while he’s not quite sure where any of them are right now, he’s perfectly capable of having a good time by himself.

Still, he says “No” just to see Cas smile, and can’t keep himself from kissing along his alpha’s jaw. Maybe he’s more than a little tipsy. “Woulda been better without that stupid alpha, though,” he admits, more seriously.

Cas’s grip immediately tightens possessively on Dean, and whether he’s aware of it or not, his reaction still makes Dean chuckle. “Someone’s been giving you trouble?” he asks, and there’s a hint of a growl in his voice that Dean should _not _find so sexy.

“It’s not really a big deal,” he says with a shrug. “Just some jerk who doesn’t understand the word ‘no.’”

Castiel lifts his head, and Dean can see him scanning the crowd, looking for something in particular. He must see it, because his lips curl into a hard-edged smirk. “I think I see the one you’re talking about. Tall, blond, looks like he uses the gym in place of having a personality?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, that’d be the one. You think he’ll back off now?”

His question is answered when Cas curls his fingers around Dean’s jaw and pulls him in for a kiss so searingly hot that it makes his toes curl. He’s far too drunk to be able to keep up with whatever Cas is doing with his tongue, so he curls his fingers into the front of Cas’s shirt and goes along for the ride. When his alpha pulls back, looking very smug and pleased at the arousal that has wound into Dean’s scent, it takes Dean a few seconds to catch his breath.

“I don’t think he’ll be causing you any more problems,” Cas says, sliding his hand over Dean’s thigh in a clear claim. Sure enough, when he turns to look, there’s no sign of the alpha in the crowd.

“Thank fuck,” Dean sighs. “You’re a possessive son of a bitch, you know that?” His voice is teasing, and he grins at his boyfriend, who simply shrugs.

“Can you blame me? The only thing better than me warning them away is watching you put them in their place. I’m surprised that one hadn’t ended up in the ocean yet.”

“He would’ve if you hadn’t shown up,” Dean mutters, “but I was lured over here by the promise of beer and my hot boyfriend.” 

“And are you complaining about that?” Castiel lets go of Dean with one hand and reaches down to the side of the beach chair, coming back up with a cold, condensation-damp beer that he hands over to Dean with a grin.

Dean twists the beer open and presses a kiss to Cas’s lips. “Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	9. Hunter Destiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes on his first solo hunt, and bites off more than he can chew.

Dean is nineteen when his dad lets him go on his first solo hunt.

It’s a nest of vampires just north of Toledo, and it takes him most of the day to get there, but he doesn’t mind because John let him take the Impala, and it’s just him and his Baby and the open road. The motel he pulls over at, close to where the nest is located, is dingy and deserted, but Dean is riding high on the euphoria of being properly alone for the first time in years and he doesn’t care. This hunt is a big deal, and he doesn’t want to screw it up, but he’s also going to bask in the feeling of being _trusted _and _capable _for just a little bit.

The guy at the front desk is playing games on his phone, and doesn’t look up even when Dean clears his throat. Instead, he says, “Ten dollars a night,” and waves his hand at the board of keys above his head, only one of which is missing.

Not the best signs, but Dean is more than used to a life like this by now. He pays with a credit card under the name of Robert Plondt, his heart in his throat—he’s never used a fake card while he’s alone, and _this _feels like joining the big leagues.

The man doesn’t bat an eye, just hands Dean the room key and goes back to playing his game.

Dean’s room is on the ground level, and he moves the Impala into the run-down parking lot, next to an ugly-ass Continental that he curls his lip at. The room itself is little better than everything else Dean has seen of the motel so far, but if his plan works out, then he’ll be out of here by tomorrow afternoon anyway.

He drops his duffel by the foot of his dodgy-looking bed and pulls out his notebooks—full of the information he’s picked up from his dad over the years, and the details of the case that he’d found. He knows where the nest is, and from the number of killings recorded, it can’t be large. He’ll head out there in the morning, slice up some fanged sons of bitches, and then be on his way back home. John will be so proud of him.

Dinner is a cardboard-tasting pizza delivered to his motel room and eaten on his bed, the muted sound of the television playing in the background while he reads over his notes again and again. Tomorrow has to go perfectly, and it’s late by the time he finally packs up all his notes and falls asleep on top of the questionable covers, gun tucked safely beneath the scratchy pillow.

When the dawn rises the next morning, so does Dean.

Breakfast is had at the tiny diner down the street, even though Dean is too nervous to stomach much more than a coffee and an egg and bacon sandwich, and then he’s on the road again. The nest isn’t far out, and as he watches the sun rise over the horizon, he knows that the vamps will just be going to sleep now. They’ll never know what hit them.

He parks the car just down the road from the run-down farmhouse where the monsters are holed up, and his heart beats double-time in his chest as he checks his weapons and slides his phone into his pocket just in case anything goes sideways. With one final, steeling breath, he twirls his machete and sets off towards the farmhouse.

~

He’s taken on so much more than he can handle.

The vampires had indeed been asleep by the time he’d crept in the back door, but hadn’t stayed that way for long once Dean had started taking them out. He can keep up with a handful, but for every one he decapitates, two more seem to take its place, and he can feel himself getting pinned back into a corner the longer the fight continues.

Teeth close dangerously close to his arm, and he swings his machete blindly—he’s lucky that it connects with flesh and bone, but his following swing isn’t so great. It lodges in the next vampire’s shoulder, and while he howls in pain, the other vamp beside him takes the opportunity to tackle Dean. Dean’s head smacks against the floor, and he finds himself pinned to the ground, dizzy and disoriented. The vampire above him grins, canines razor-sharp and glinting in the dim light of the farmhouse.

All Dean can think about, as he stares down his own death, is the disappointment his dad is going to feel in him, and how much he’s going to miss Sammy.

And then there’s a flash of metal, and the vampire’s head separates neatly from his neck, the decapitated body slumping to the ground to reveal a young man standing over Dean.

He’s tall, wearing ripped jeans, combat boots, and an old leather jacket. His hair is a mess, he’s spattered with blood, and the ground around him is littered with all the vampires that Dean had failed to kill.

For a second, all Dean can do is stare up at the hunter who saved him—a guardian angel, surely, for how close Dean had been to meeting his maker.

And then the man growls out, “Are you fucking stupid?” and the spell is broken. Dean shakes his head to clear it and props himself up on his elbows.

“I didn’t know how many vamps there really were here,” he mutters under his breath, reaching over to retrieve his machete from the vampire’s shoulder.

The hunter reaches out a hand to help Dean up, which he accepts, because It’s starting to properly sink in that he’d be dead right now if not for this guy, and he doesn’t know that he fully trusts his legs to hold him up in this moment. “I saw your Impala parked down the road,” the guy says, letting go of Dean’s hand. “You only got in last night, and you didn’t scope the place out? Rookie mistake. You’re lucky I was on my way here anyway.”

Dean’s pride may be severely bruised, but he still says, “Thanks for that,” because he’s right. It _was _a rookie mistake, and it almost got him killed.

The hunter must see that he’s still a little shaken, because he offers him a tight smile as they pick their way over the corpses and step back out into the sunshine. Outside of the dingy farmhouse, his eyes shine a bright blue against tanned skin. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’ll learn. What’s your name?”

The ugly Continental is parked out the front of the farmhouse, and Dean has never been so happy to see such a shitty car in his life. “Dean Winchester,” he says, and the hunter must have heard of his family, because he raises his eyebrows. “You?”

The hunter spins his machete in his hand and then hooks it back onto his belt. It gleams in the sunlight, sharp and dangerous.

“Castiel Novak,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Nice to meet you, Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	10. Streetracing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean races for his father's crown.

The darkest parts of the city of Da-jiirde-mæ, out past the climate dome and where not even the Feds will extend the arm of the intergalactic law, are where the racers reign.

The streets are narrow, winding, bordered on each side by space junk that has been turned into houses, storefronts, makeshift cargo pods. People—_creatures_, some of them—from every imaginable planet and galaxy have found their home here, in a vast array of dialects and appearances and cultures. It is not a peaceful area by far, but it is governed by unspoken laws and centuries-old agreements…

And by the racers.

This has been Dean’s life for as long as he can remember. John Winchester had been the King, many years ago, and when he’d died, the mantle of King had been open once again, able to be claimed by whoever was the most daring, the most talented, the most recklessly ambitious. He’d been too young to race for the title that year, but he spent it scouring the scrapheaps and making the modifications to John’s old Impxla II that his father had never wanted while he was alive.

The next year, though, he was ready.

It shaped up to be a cut-throat race, of course—everyone around knew that Dean Winchester had returned to reclaim his father’s crown, and it seemed like half the city had turned out to stop him doing just that. The starting line had been packed with more speeders than Dean had ever seen in his life, and all eyes were on him, it felt like. Waiting for him to slip up. Waiting for him to fail.

He’d flipped down his visor determinedly, flexed his fingers around the joystick, and waited for the countdown.

The first half of the race hadn’t been so bad. Dean had been targeted, of course, but the new diversion systems he’d installed had kept him out of the way of most of the laser shots sent his way. (The buildings that had taken the hits instead of him hadn’t been too lucky, but that is always the case with the races; it is part and parcel of living in such a wild place.)

His good luck had been too good to be true, though.

Dean had been driving the race route with his father since he was barely old enough to see over the dash, but not even he could have spotted the EMP left right in the middle of the street and covered with a cham-shield. Whoever had put it there had known that he’d be leading the race, that he’d be the first one to pass over it, so when Dean’s engine dies with a horrifying crackle of static and his speeder drops out of the air to skid helpless along the street, he immediately kicks himself for not seeing this coming.

His battery is shorted out, irreparable apart from a replacement or access to a new power source to bring it back to life, and all he can do is watch while the other racers fly past. It’s too late in the race now to be able to swap out, and Dean knows that he’s done for. He’s going to have to wait until next year to be able to reclaim his dad’s title, and he bites back bitter tears of frustration.

Someone bangs on the window of his speeder.

It makes him jump—there shouldn’t be anyone on the ground right now, not while the race is going on, but when he turns to look, there’s a dark-suited figure outside. Dean rolls down his window.

“Take my battery,” the man says without preamble, hoisting up the glowing blue cylinder so that Dean can see. It looks like Enochii technology, and Dean’s eyes widen—he’s never seen anything like it, only heard stories, whispers. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Connect it up!” he orders, his adrenaline running too high to be polite about it as he jumps out and opens up the hood of his speeder to reveal the engines and circuitry beneath. Together, they work to disconnect the old battery and wire in the new one, the cylinder glowing serenely amongst all the rest of the Impxla’s hardware. When Dean slams the hood back down, it’s with the blossoming hope in his chest that he might actually still win this thing.

“I could fucking kiss you,” he tells the man, jabbing a finger in his direction as he jumps back into the seat of his speeder. “Come find me at the finish line, regardless of whether I win, okay?”

He barely has time to see the man nod, the ghost of a smile barely visible through his dark-tinted helmet, before he’s off once again.

With an Enochii battery hooked up to his engine, it feels like Dean is flying. He’s moving three times as fast as he was before, the streets of the city speeding past, and already he can see the end of the pack that had left him behind. It’ll be close, that’s for sure, but his gut tells him he’s still in with a chance. He joins the back of the pack just as they make the last sharp turn, and then it’s a mad dash down the final straight. Those behind him fire at him, those beside him try to jostle him out of the sky, but Dean evades them all effortlessly, and soon enough he’s nipping at the leader’s heels.

The look of shock on the Morphae’s spotted face is something that Dean will remember for a long time as he gives them a middle-fingered salute and rockets past them, clearing the finish line with barely a ship-length between their speeders.

_He won_.

The rest of it, the after, is a blur. He remembers the unofficial coronation, Sammy at the front of the crowd and cheering louder for him than anyone else. He remembers a few of his dad’s friends escorting away the Morphae who had set the EMP. He remembers being asked about his speeder, and how he’s made it back to the pack so quickly, let alone at all.

He doesn’t tell them too much about the dark-suited man who’d helped him out; it feels too private, especially when he doesn’t even have all the answers about just _why _he’d helped Dean down there on that deserted street.

Not long after, he manages to slip away, into a quiet alleyway where he can _breathe_. He can’t quite keep the smile off his face, because holy fuck, he actually _won_, but he’s still kind of disappointed that the man hadn’t shown up.

“Congratulations.”

The voice comes from behind him, and Dean whips around, startled.

Standing there is the same man from before, dressed in a black racing suit, but this time there are two equally black wings curling out from behind him, and there is no longer a helmet hiding the face that Dean now instantly recognizes.

“Cas?” he asks, his eyes wide, jaw dropping. He’d never known that the young man who lived above his garage and had occasionally kept him company while he worked on his speeder had been a fucking _Enochii_.

Cas smiles, and now that he’s not keeping them hidden, the soft blue markings that denote one of his kind appear on his cheekbones and the backs of his hands. “Surprise,” he says, and Dean can’t suppress the giddy laugh that bubbles up in his chest.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You—you saved my ass back there, dude. You could have won it all, though, with that kind of tech. Why didn’t you?”

The question earns him a shrug, in that same casual way that has been so endearing to Dean every time they’ve hung out. “You wanted it so badly,” he says, “and I knew that you’d win as long as nobody fucked you over. I was only there just in case something went wrong.”

Dean grins, euphoric, and even though he’s fantasized about kissing Cas once or twice in the quiet privacy of his garage, he’s never wanted to do it quite as much as he does now. “I don’t know how to thank you, Cas, really.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth quirks upwards and he tilts his head, wings ruffling at his back. “Well. I believe you said, back there, that you could kiss me. I could go for a reward like that.” The curve of his lips is both confident and hesitant, as if he’s not sure if Dean really meant what he’d said in the heat of the moment, and, well. Dean won’t stand for that.

He closes the space between them in a handful of strides, curls his fingers into the front of Cas’s racing suit, and pulls him in for a kiss. Cas makes a surprised sound against his lips, and then melts into it, his arms wrapping around Dean’s waist and wings curling lightly over Dean’s shoulders.

There’s no telling how long they stay there for, trading kisses in the slowly-darkening alleyway, but when they finally separate, Dean is grinning breathlessly, and Cas is practically _glowing_.

The darkest parts of the city of Da-jiirde-mæ are where the racers reign, but never in its long history has it ever seen anything quite like the Kingship of Dean Winchester and Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	11. Singer Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel soundmixes for professional artist Dean Winchester.

Castiel has met his fair share of talented artists, but he’s never met one quite like Dean Winchester.

When he first walks into work on Monday morning, he knows he’s recording for a D. Winchester, and from the way the other techs whisper about him in the staff room, it’s kind of a big deal. Not that means much to Castiel—for someone who works for one of the biggest recording studios in the country, he doesn’t really keep up to date with the ‘popular music.’ He does his job, records whoever walks into his booth and makes them sound good, then goes home and puts his Spotify on shuffle. He’s got an eclectic and varied taste in music, that’s for sure.

He’s never heard of Winchester, though, apart from maybe passing mentions on television, so he doesn’t quite understand the jealous looks some of the other sound engineers are shooting him as he leaves his bag by his desk and quickly checks his emails before heading over to the studio where he’ll be working for the day. It doesn’t matter much to him, though—it’s just part of the job.

It doesn’t take him long to go through the administrative part of his day, and then he’s free to disappear off to his booth to set things up for the day ahead. Castiel always likes to make sure that the control and live rooms are both neat and properly organized for what he needs to record, and today is all vocals. He’s still tinkering with his console when there’s a knock on the door outside.

When he opens it, it’s to six feet of leather-jacket-wearing beauty, and he was _not_expecting D. Winchester to look like this. Freckles, softly gelled hair, a crooked half-smile that’s confident and self-deprecating all at once, and green eyes the likes of which Castiel has never seen in real life.

“Hello,” he says without thinking, his brain still processing the fact that Winchester is one of the most handsome men he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” is the response he gets, and those lips curl up into a proper smile now. “You’re Novak, right? Uh… Cas-tee-el? You’re the one I’m recording with today, I’ve been told.”

“Just call me Cas.” The correction is more a habit than anything—his full name had sounded wonderful in Winchester’s deep drawl. “That’s me, yes.”

Winchester holds out his hand to shake. “I’m Dean,” he says. “Looking forward to working with you today, buddy.”

Castiel takes his hand and shakes it, then invites him into the studio, trying his best not to make a fool of himself. _He’s probably got no talent_, he reminds himself. _Just a pretty face with a good manager and a voice half-passable with some autotune_. That helps him feel a little less starstruck by the gorgeous man who gets himself settled on the stool in the live booth and smiles at Cas through the glass while he gets his headphones situated.

“What are we starting with?” he asks through the comms as he gets himself fully set up, leaning forward over his desk to look at the list of songs that had been emailed to him.

Dean hums thoughtfully, then says, “I think we’ll start with Way Down We Go,” and if hearing Dean’s voice normally had made Castiel’s heart beat double-time, then hearing him through his headphones, as though he’s _inside _Cas’s head, is so much more intense.

Maybe he’s made the wrong assessment about Dean’s vocal capability.

Before he gets much more of a chance to second-guess himself, he pulls up the backing track for that song—all the instrumentals had been recorded a few days ago, and now it’s just Castiel and Dean putting together the last few pieces. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says, and Dean rolls his neck, gets comfortable, then shoots Castiel a grin and two thumbs up from his position by the microphone.

The first notes play through Castiel’s headphones, and he’d known that the vocals started pretty early into the song, but when Dean opens his mouth and starts singing, Castiel completely forgets that he’s supposed to be doing his job right now.

Dean’s voice is deep and rich and beautiful, flowing like molasses along with the tempo of the song. The moments of distortion are exceptionally timed, his falsetto a perfect crest before he falls back into the melody, and by the time he’s belting out the chorus, head tipped back and eyes closed like he’s in the middle of a religious experience, Castiel is lost.

It’s all he can do just to listen, his attention absolutely captivated by this beautiful, _impossibly talented _man. In the moments when he’s no singing, he’s moving along to the riffs of the guitar or miming the notes themselves in the air, letting the music take over him and crooning against the microphone when he needs to.

_Baby, oo-ooh… way down we go._

All of Castiel’s assumptions about this man had been _so wrong_.

By the time the song finishes, Castiel has been sitting with his mouth open for three and a half minutes with no work to show for it. The last notes of the song fade, and then Dean opens his eyes, made vulnerable and raw by the music. His smile is fragile, as though that rendition could have been anything less than perfect, as though Castiel could possibly find any room for improvement. Cas has recorded a lot of artists, but none of them had managed to floor him quite as thoroughly as what he’d just witnessed.

“Was that okay?” Dean asks, reaching up to adjust one of his headphones and watching Cas through the glass. Now that he knows what Dean is capable of, just how much talent he possesses, he finds him even more beautiful. Good god, his colleagues had been right to be jealous.

Castiel clears his throat, composes himself for a second, then presses his comms button and says, “Holy shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	12. Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean convinces Castiel to stay in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [spnhell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnhell) <3

There is little in the world that is better than waking up next to Dean, Castiel has decided.

In those moments, curled up together in their bed in the small apartment that they call home—the space they have carved out together, just for the two of them—he could not be happier. The sheets are warm where they wrap around his body; Dean, in every possible place they’re pressed together, is even warmer. It’s cozy and it’s home and if Castiel never had to leave he’d be a happy man.

His alarm, and the eight a.m. class that Professor Adler scheduled just to spite his students, have other ideas.

The musical tones cut through his sleep-hazed mind—sharp enough to rouse him, but not grating enough to irritate—and he grumbles under his breath. It’s been raining all night, he thinks, had been raining when they went to sleep tangled together and blissfully exhausted, and is still raining now in a light patter against their bedroom window. His motivation to get out of bed is low.

Castiel disentangles himself from Dean’s octopus grip enough to reach for his phone and snooze the alarm. Does he bite the bullet and get up now, or give himself another five minutes?

Dean’s arm tightens around his waist and pulls him gently back into the pool of warmth that they’ve created, away from the cool bite of the early morning air. “Mornin’, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing drowsily over Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel melts.

“Good morning,” he says, his lips curling up until a smile as he leans back into Dean’s embrace. Dean is solid and warm behind him, hair tickling the back of his neck and fingers skimming lightly over his stomach.

“You plannin’ on leaving me?” Dean says against his skin, pressing his forehead against the curve of Castiel’s spine. His voice is sleep-roughened, but Castiel can still hear his smile, feel it in the shape of Dean’s lips on his skin.

If he wants to keep his willpower intact, he shouldn’t roll over, but that’s exactly what he does now, shifting in Dean’s embrace until they’re face to face. He’d been a lost cause from the moment Dean had pulled him closer and called him _baby_. “I should,” he says, unconvincingly, because now he can see Dean’s face in the faint light that filters through rain-dappled windows, those green eyes soft and amused. “I have to get to class, you—you’re a _bad influence_.”

The last few words come out somewhat more hoarse that Castiel had been expecting, because Dean chooses that point to tilt his head and brush his lips against the curve of Cas’s jaw, kissing up towards the soft spot on his neck that makes him forget about anything other than Dean’s kisses, Dean’s touch, _Dean_. “Fuck,” he breathes, and Dean chuckles, rich and warm.

“Your lecture date with Adler is more appealing than staying in bed with your boyfriend on a rainy day?” He _tsks _quietly, scraping his teeth over the bolt of Castiel’s jaw while his fingers slide teasingly over his stomach. “Guess I didn’t do a very good job last night, then.”

The words are said with the smug air of someone who _does indeed _know that they had done a good job last night, if the comfortable ache in Castiel’s muscles is anything to go by, but there’s no way he can muster enough focus to deliver a witty comeback. Instead, all he can do is groan “you’re insufferable” and curl his fingers around the curve of Dean’s jaw, pulling him up into a proper kiss.

It’s lazy and relaxed, all slow-moving bodies and the drag of hands over skin, and Castiel is definitely going to have to email Adler with a bullshit excuse for his absence—but that becomes the last thing on his mind when Dean’s hands and mouth start to roam, and all of Castiel’s thoughts dissolve into pleasure and bliss and _Dean_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	13. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean grieves on the anniversary of his mother's death.

Castiel comes home in the early hours of the morning to find Dean still awake.

In his own sleep-deprived and assignment-fueled haze, he had expected their dorm room to be dark and quiet, which is why he’s so careful in letting himself in, so that he doesn’t wake Dean. Instead, though, the room is washed with the blue-white light of Dean’s laptop.

When Castiel blinks tiredly at him, confused, it takes him a second to realize that Dean’s cheeks are wet.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles quickly, wiping at his eyes with one hand while he quickly shuts his laptop with the other, plunging the room into near-darkness. “I didn’t, um… I lost track of time. How was the library?” His voice cracks, and Castiel’s heart aches, because if he’d realized that Dean was upset tonight, he would have been here with him, instead of cramming at the library.

“It was alright,” he says, leaving his bag on the floor and making his way over to where Dean is sitting on their bed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

As Castiel’s eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, he sees Dean look up at the ceiling for a second. His intake of breath wobbles. “It’s the second,” he says finally, his voice quiet and small.

It takes a second to realize what Dean means—and then he puts the pieces together, and it feels like he’s taken a punch to the gut. _Of course_. “Oh, Dean,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, love.”

Dean sobs, then, great wracking sobs that shake his body as Castiel climbs up onto the bed beside him and just holds him, stroking his back and letting him cry against his shoulder. They’ve been roommates for long enough—boyfriends for less, but still not an insignificant while—that Castiel should have known this was coming, and he whispers his apologies into Dean’s hair. Whether or not he’s heard, he’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters in this moment is that he’s here for Dean.

It’s the early hours of the morning on the second of November, and Castiel holds Dean until he has no more tears left, until he is wrung dry from his grief, until the first faint light filters through the window and, finally, they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	14. Painter Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean stresses about his upcoming exhibition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [miggs](http://migglangelus.tumblr.com) <3

Warm light streams through the window of Dean’s studio and drapes itself over his canvas, illuminating his paints in brilliant hues and shades of grey. Stroke by stroke, his work is coming together, and it’s easy to lose himself in it by way of sheer practice and love for his art. Painting, for him, is so much more than just work—it’s love, it’s dedication, it’s hours and hours spent striving for perfection.

Dean doesn’t know how long he’s been enmeshed in the fog of working before warm hands slide over his shoulders and squeeze gently. Breath curls against his air, followed by a gentle press of lips against the soft skin just below. “Earth to Dean,” comes the murmured voice—fond and amused and so soft.

“Sorry, babe,” he says in reply, setting down his paintbrush and stretching his fingers as he leans back against Cas. Fuck, he really must have lost track of time, from the stiffness in his body. How long has he been painting for? “Were you trying to talk to me?”

Cas hums, turning his face against Dean’s neck. His lips brush lightly over Dean’s skin. “I was, yes. Didn’t realize you were so deeply engrossed in your work, though. How is it going?”

How _is _it going?

Dean surveys his canvas properly for the first time in what feels like hours, finally taking a step back from it instead of closely examining it with a critical eye. To him, it’s easy to pick out the imperfections—the flaw in his perspective here, a slightly misplaced light source there, a handful of brushstrokes that are a little too messy for his liking. “It’s alright,” he hedges, hoping that Cas can’t see the twist of unhappiness to his lips. “I don’t know if it’s going to be ready by Monday, though.”

His workshop is full of canvases—half-finished, barely-started, or fully completed but not up to his standards. For his first exhibition, he wants everything to be as perfect as he can possibly get it, and this one was supposed to be his _pièce de résistance_, but he wants it to be _perfect_, and it’s just… not.

“Do you have the option to _not _have it ready by Monday?” Cas murmurs, a hint of teasing in his voice. His lips are still next to Dean’s neck, and he shifts his arms to wrap around Dean’s shoulders now—solid and comforting.

“Not fuckin’ really,” Dean sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. _Months_, he’s had to work on this, and of course he’s bringing it right down to the wire. Nothing like the threat of a looming deadline to kick one’s ass into gear. “I’m screwed.”

“Dean.”

Cas’s voice is serious now, and he leans forward over Dean’s shoulder so that they can look each other in the eyes, his brow creased into a frown. “You are talented,” he says, gently but insistently. “You’ve worked hard at this, and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that you’re going to pull it off. To me, it looks beautiful, and I know I’m only an art history graduate and not an actual artist, but I’d like to think that counts for something, okay?” His lips curve up in the hint of a smile. “Besides, we both know that I have excellent taste, because I chose to date you, so there.”

Dean can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Sometimes I wonder,” he mutters wryly, and Cas flicks him lightly on the bicep.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he warns, but there’s a smile on his lips and crinkling his eyes, and Dean feels his heart swell. “Really though,” Cas continues, “I think it looks amazing. You’re just overthinking it. What you need…” Here, his smile turns into a wicked grin, and he ducks his head to press a line of kisses along Dean’s throat that curl Dean’s toes. “…Is a distraction. Something to get you out of your head.”

“Got any suggestions?” Dean asks, suddenly somewhat breathless, and Castiel hums against Dean’s skin.

“I don’t know about you,” he muses, “but it’s getting late, and I’m feeling like a shower.” Dean feels him smirk. “You’re always more than welcome to come and join me—but _don’t _keep freaking out about your painting.”

And then he’s gone, leaving cold air and the lingering hints of his smug tease in his absence, like he _knows _that he’s got Dean right where he wants him.

Dean turns to watch him go, then looks back at his painting. Takes in the mistakes, the weaknesses, the parts he’s unhappy with. He could stay here, agonizing over them for the rest of the night, or…

_Fuck it_.

He sets his paints aside, wipes his hands off on his paint-covered jeans, then follows after his boyfriend with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	15. Synchronicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate (destiny, a horse) brings Dean and Castiel together.

It’s finals week, and the library is the most packed Dean has ever seen it. He has a report to submit by the end of the week, and the Wi-Fi in his dorm is being fucking horrific, so braving the mass of despondent and sleep-deprived students in the library is his only option if he wants to get this in on time.

He’s been circling the rows of desks for a few minutes now, looking for somewhere to sit in the hopes that one of the seats will have been magically vacated in the time it took to check the others.

Thankfully—and there must be someone up above smiling down on Dean right now—one has. He snatches it up before anyone else can get to it first, and breathes a sigh of relief as he unpacks his bag and sets himself up. His report can still be salvaged.

As he unpacks, Dean notices a few sheets of handwritten notes sitting on the desk between him and his neighbor. From the fact that his neighbor is currently studying the intricacies of the nervous system, and the notes, from a glance, seem to be about Renaissance Europe, it’s safe to say that they must belong to whoever was here before Dean. There’s a tiny bee sketched onto the margin of the paper, and Dean smiles at it for a second before he has to open his laptop and get to work.

Two hours later, he takes a break to go to the bathroom, leaving his stuff on his desk because it’s worth the risk of it all getting stolen if it means he secures his place.

When he comes back, the notes are gone.

~

It’s raining, and Dean stares forlornly out at the empty space between his building and the parking lot where his car is. He should have brought his engineering project in as soon as he’d remembered that he’d left it in the backseat of his car, but now it’s pouring, his umbrella is also still in his car, and he’s paying for his mistake.

There are a few umbrellas by the building’s front door, opened and drying off in the warmth. He feels a little bad for taking one, but it’s the only way he’s going to make it back inside without the rain destroying the little machine he’s worked so hard on building.

“Sorry, Novak,” he mutters, reading the name on the handle of the closest umbrella he grabs. “I’ll have it back in a sec, I promise.”

Now protected from the rain, Dean dashes out to his car, and manages to get his project inside—safe, dry and all in one piece.

He also forgets to return the umbrella to its place by the front door.

~

It’s a Saturday morning, and Dean is studying (or trying to, at least) in the common room of his res hall.

Someone’s fixed the Wi-Fi, thankfully, so he doesn’t have to brave the hordes of the library any more, but he’d almost rather take the busyness and the silence over the idiots talking loudly fooling around a few tables over from him.

“—doesn’t want to come to the party next weekend, how do we convince him?”

One of the guys—a smarmy British bastard who Dean has only encountered a few times but whose personality grates on Dean like nothing else—chuckles and leans in close. “It won’t take much to get him out. Just pinch his room key or something, and—”

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his headphones up louder, drowning out their conversation and focusing on his work. When he looks up half an hour later, the friend that the group had been waiting for must have joined them, because the table is empty.

~

It’s the end of a long day, and Dean is lying on his bed watching Netflix when there’s a knock on his door.

All his friends—and more than half of the residents in his dorm—are going to a party tonight, but considering Dean has been working all damn day, there’s nothing he wanted to do _less _than go out and get wasted. He’s quite happy lying here and watching Queer Eye, thank you very much.

That does mean, however, that if his friends are all out tonight, he has no idea who the hell is knocking on his door.

With no shortage of grumbling, he hauls his exhausted limbs up and makes his way over to the door, pulling it open.

Standing in front of him is a grumpy-looking (but _attractive_) student, holding a stack of notebooks and textbooks to his chest, tucked half-under his jacket. It must be raining again, because the guy’s dark hair is dripping into his eyes, and the exposed corner of one of his cartoon bee-covered notebooks is looking a little soggy. “Can I help you?” Dean asks, somewhat distracted by the bright blue eyes and the irritated crease between the guy’s brows.

“Thank god someone’s still here,” the guy mutters. He lifts a hand to push his hair off his forehead. “I lost my room key, and it’s pouring outside, and someone stole my umbrella, and all my friends are at that stupid party but I’ve been studying all day and all I want to do right now is lie down on the floor and not move for a month.”

A little dramatic, perhaps, but definitely a sentiment that Dean can agree with. The corners of his mouth curl up into a smile—even grumpy and wet, this guy is still pretty cute, and his voice in particular is making Dean a little weak at the knees.

“Did you want to come in and hang out for a bit?” Dean asks, amused, and the guy’s expression transforms into a grateful smile.

“That would be fantastic, thank you,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief when Dean steps aside and motions him into his room. “Have you been here long? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Dean closes the door behind them and settles back onto his bed, closing his laptop on the episode he’d been watching. “I only moved into this dormitory this year,” he explains, leaning back on his hands.

The guy raises an eyebrow at Dean to check that it’s okay before he sets his stack of books down on the corner of Dean’s desk—all notebooks and textbooks with titles like ‘The House of Medici’ and ‘Renaissance and Reformation.’ “Well,” he says, lips curving up into a smile that makes Dean’s heart double-beat in his chest. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Castiel Novak, but you can just call me Cas.”

_Novak_. Dean’s eyes go wide. _Well, fuck_. This might make things awkward—he has to hope that Cas isn’t the type to hold a grudge.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, and gives Cas a sheepish smile. “I think I’m the one who accidentally stole your umbrella.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	16. Archaeologist Dean/God Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean explores an ancient temple and awakens an ancient presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [cryptomoon](http://cryptomoon.tumblr.com)! <3

Somewhere deep in the Amazonian rainforest, far beneath the tree canopy and a few miles north of the raging river, Dean Winchester stands at the entrance of a long-forgotten temple.

It towers above him, all crumbling bricks and snaking vines, exactly what he’s been looking for after weeks of searching and months of planning and years upon years of studying the ancient texts that have directed him to this very spot. Several of the remaining inscriptions and tablets from other sites mention this god, and the existence of a temple dedicated to him, but while other scholars had dismissed the temple as being lost to the cruel winds of time, Dean had not given up so easily.

And here he stands.

“About fuckin’ time,” he says to himself, a grin curling his lips. He’s been after this find, and now that he’s here, he’s itching to get in and explore. There’s no telling what he’s about to unearth—so, never one to waste time, he checks his gear one last time, sends a quick thought up to the supposed god of the temple he’s about to enter, and steps inside.

Inside the temple, where the sun has not touched for many hundreds of years, the air is cool and dry. Dean reaches for the lamp that he keeps clipped to the outside of his backpack and turns it on, the low light illuminating inscriptions and decorations on the stone walls. He’s careful where he steps, mindful of the pottery shards that litter the ground in some places. He’ll need to come back and inspect those later, but for now, he wants to get the lay of the land. The temple hadn’t looked that large, from the outside, but he knows that there are areas he couldn’t see without entering the structure, and he’s curious to find out exactly what they hold.

Every step takes him further into the temple, through twisting corridors and past rooms of worship and offering. Those aren’t what Dean is looking for, though, not right now. The texts he’s read tell of the temple having a ‘heart,’ a place right in the core of the temple that served as the connection to the god. It is where, the texts say, the god’s presence could be felt most strongly, and where the most elite and the most religious came to pay tribute.

Dean follows his nose through the temple, using his compass and his many years of experience to try and locate the centre. The corridor he’s following turns a corner, and when Dean steps around it, he can see light at the end; part of the roof structure that has caved in. It’s in the right spot to be what he’s looking for, and he crosses the rest of the distance to the corridor’s end in wide, hurried strides, until he steps out into a grand, sunlit room.

The collapse looks to have come from a built-in skylight that has deteriorated over time, but it’s the kind of feature that would have allowed the god’s followers to feel closer to him—he had been, after all, the god of life, and of the sun. That much Dean has been able to parse out, though a name for the deity has still escaped his research.

Even without the crumbled skylight, though, there’s no doubt that this is the room he’s been looking for.

Paint adorns the walls, bright colours and spots of gold decorating every available space. Along the walls are chests and shelves full of precious metals, gems, incense, any offerings that would have pleased the god, and stand as evidence that this temple has not been touched since the fall of its people, hundreds of years ago. In the centre of the room are four trees that have long since grown out of hand, roots cracking the floor around their squares of dirt and branches stretching up, untamed, towards the high ceiling.

What catches Dean’s eye, though, is the altar in the centre of the room and the four trees. It’s a piece of solid stone, slightly taller than Dean himself, and as he steps closer, he can make out the intricate carvings that have been etched onto its surface.

There is a man, tall and handsomely stylized, with the sun hanging over his head like the halo of an angel. It shines down on him, and on the trees and the land that surrounds his image. _The giver of life_.

Beneath the inscription, there is a single handprint—originally etched into the rock, but whose edges have been worn smooth by a thousand years, and the touch of hundreds, if not thousands, of hands to this very spot.

Dean is witnessing history, in the evidence of worn stone and religious dedication. It’s humbling, to be standing here where so many people have prayed, or given tribute, or dedicated themselves to the god. To be such a small piece of history, and to be bearing witness to all that has come before him… It’s more than a little mind-blowing.

He steps up close to the altar, and kneels down on the smooth stone before it. He’s in this god’s temple, has read and learned so much about him, that it feels wrong not to pay him his respects before Dean begins documenting what he’s found. He may not believe in a heaven or that there’s anyone up there watching over him, but the people who built this had believed, and that’s enough for him, right now. He’s respecting their memory, and everything that they built and believed.

Which is why he reaches out and touches his hand to the handprint in the stone.

And then there’s a loud _crack_, like the earth itself shifting, groaning, reawakening.

_That can’t be good_.

Dean pulls his hand back from the stone and looks up at the sunlight still streaming through the hole in the roof. The sun is still shining, the temple still stands, and despite the sound, it doesn’t seem that anything has changed. Dean certainly hasn’t been zapped out of existence for daring to touch an ancient ritual item, which is always a relief.

Disappointed by the lack of consequences, Dean stands, ready to keep exploring the chamber to see if there’s anything else that could be the ‘heart’ that the texts had referred to.

When he turns away from the altar, there is a man standing in front of him.

He’s tall and tanned, wearing only what looks to be some sort of loincloth. Gold adorns his wrists and throat and ears, standing out starkly against the dark, unruly curls of his hair. Wide, blue eyes bore into Dean’s as though they can see right into his very soul, and his feet are bare, grounded against the earth and stone. 

He was certainly not there when Dean had knelt down, and it’s only a very good amount of self-control that keeps Dean from jumping a foot in the air at the sudden appearance of this strange man. “Who the fuck are you?” he demands.

The man tilts his head to the side, slow and careful, then blinks. “I have not been summoned to this mortal plane for a very long time,” he says—quietly, but in a voice that still resonates with power and practically _demands _that Dean listen. “My followers have long since disappeared, and yet… here you are.”

It takes a moment for Dean to process this, but when it clicks into place in his mind, he sucks in a sharp breath. This is…

“You’re the god,” he whispers, his mouth falling open in shock. “You—this is your temple.”

The man inclines his head, slowly and regally.

Jesus Christ—or… not, as it turns out. The people who worshipped this god would never have heard of Christianity. “I’m sorry,” Dean blurts out, raising his hands—to placate the god, to defend himself from any divine wrath he may have incurred, he’s really not sure. Either way, the god eyes him with something akin to mild amusement. “I didn’t realize you—you’d still be here. Or that you ever truly existed to be honest, I—I don’t really believe in higher powers or any of that crap.”

Is that offensive to say to a god’s face? If he’s going down, he’s going out with a bang, that’s for sure.

The corners of the god’s eyes crinkle, but the rest of his face remains calm and impassive. “There will always be non-believers,” he says. “I take no offence. You have given my temple new life, and that is all that matters to me.”

Dean lets out a slow breath. Maybe he’s not about to be smote into a thousand tiny pieces. The god’s positive answer gives him the courage to ask the question that has been burning in his mind ever since he started his research—it might be pushing his luck, but Dean didn’t as far as he is today without pushing his luck more than a little.

“What is your name?”

The man exhales, and his eyes close, as though it takes him a great effort to remember. It has been a long time since he was actively worshipped, after all.

“My name… I have had many names. Many titles. But the one I was given from the very beginning…” He exhales, then opens his eyes, and for the first time, there’s the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“My name is Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/184459168849/happy-birthday-cryptomoon-3-3-somewhere-deep-in).


	17. Endverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are irreparably broken.

To almost everyone, Dean is sharp-tongued and brittle, all sharp edges and steel and gunpowder. He is firmly-worded orders and the persistent gnaw of under-rationed hunger. He is everything that the End has made him into.

Castiel is the only one who gets to see what he’s really like. What he was before, tainted and made misshapen by what he has to endure but, at the heart of it all, still good.

In the nights they spend together, in the relative safety of Castiel’s bed, they can simply be themselves. They know each other’s worst secrets, after all; there is no need to keep up a mask, a painted façade, when the person kissing over your skin knows the darkest and most twisted parts of you. When Dean is with Castiel, his pretense fractures just enough, and it is Castiel’s practiced hands that grip that fracture and pull, that break him apart until he is no longer what he is to everybody else in the camp. He doesn’t have to be a leader—here, he can be whatever he needs to be. _Cas _can be whatever Dean needs him to be.

Castiel is also the one to build him back up again; to harness his ever-collapsing entropy and halt it, to put him back together as he once had with his own two hands, so long ago that it feels like a lifetime now. That is what he is to Dean, and Dean is something similar to him, and it’s fucked up, but it’s _them_, and it _works_.

Besides, everything’s fucked up, these days. He’s still trying to run from it—from the heavy inevitability of it all—but he has the creeping suspicion that soon, his time of running will be up.

For now though… for now, he buries himself in the haze of drugs and sex and pretending the outside world doesn’t exist—that everything isn’t collapsing, that supplies aren’t getting harder to find, that the people they’re losing to the chaos and destruction of the End are _good people_.

And most of all, he buries himself in Dean, in both the metaphorical and biblical senses of the phrase. They spend every possible night together, and it is easy to lose himself not only in the fevered touch of Dean’s hands or the desperate press of his lips, but in the smaller things. The muscles in his back as the dim light from outside filters through ragged curtains and plays over his naked body. The freckles that mark his skin, and the scars that he collects and wears like trophies, more and more added each week. The youth and innocence on his face that Castiel only rarely catches glimpses of when Dean is very deeply asleep.

He doesn’t know if either of them are capable of love, not any more, but this is probably the closest they will ever get again. Because even in the midst of all this entropy, and in the middle of the End, and through all the fucked up things they’ve seen and done together, Castiel still has Dean.

He will _always _have Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	18. Valentine's Day fake dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean concocts a plan to score them free dessert--but wouldn't it just be easier without all the pretending?

“Alright, Cas, here’s our story.”

They’re sitting in a booth in one of Dean’s favourite diners, looking up at the promotional banner above the counter. It’s big and pink and peppered with hearts, and it reads:

_Treat your sugar to some sugar! Free dessert for couples on Valentine’s Day_.

Castiel has never understood the appeal of the holiday, not when he knows how irritating and meddlesome and not at all lovely cupids can be. It clearly means something to humans, though, and especially to Dean, if his fixation on today (and the dessert special, specifically) is anything to go by. Which is why Castiel is indulging him.

“Our story?”

Dean leans forward across the small table and drops his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “We need to pretend to be… y’know, dating. For the free pie. So our story is that we met at a… a…”

“Halloween party,” Castiel suggests, thinking of flickering shadows and blood-red demons. It’s both close to and laughably far from the truth.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “A little ‘high school,’ Cas, but alright. So we met at a Halloween party, we’ve been together for, um… eight months. You love my sense of humour and endless pop culture references, and I love your sex hair and the withering look you give me whenever I call it sex hair.” He pauses, then grins when Castiel scowls obligingly. “Yup, that’s the one.”

Not that Castiel isn’t fond of Dean’s dubbing of his hair—it’s hard not to find most of his mannerisms endearing in some way, at this point. How far he has fallen, in so many ways, and especially for Dean Winchester.

“That sounds like a feasible story,” he tells Dean, folding his hands on the table in front of himself. “I feel confident that I would be able to tell that to our waitress, or even go ‘off script’ if it is needed. But… Dean…” Castiel pauses, thinks over what he’s going to say. “Why didn’t you find an actual date to bring here? Then you wouldn’t have to pretend.”  
Dean blushes all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I… you know, then I’d have to find someone to go with me, and indulge my pie obsession, and no one indulges my bullshit quite like you do.” He smiles quickly, but Castiel can see right through it. “It’s honestly just more fun to hang out with you. And you’re good lookin’ enough that it’s not a hardship pretending to date you,” he says with a wink.

Castiel raises his eyebrows, then says simply, “Why don’t we make it an actual date?”

If Castiel had thought Dean’s cheeks had been as pink as they could go, they manage to blush even darker now. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as though he can’t quite wrap his head around the question. “An actual date?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and his lips quirk up into a small smile. “That way, we wouldn’t have to lie to whoever our server is. We can tell them we actually _are_dating—because between you and me, I believe they’ve been taking bets.” Even from here, he can see two of the regular staff eyeing them as they talk, half-hiding smiles behind their hands.

When he looks back at Dean, Castiel finds him still doing his best impression of a gobsmacked fish. “Let me get this straight,” he says, after a few seconds of silence. “You want this to be a date. A _date _date, not just a fake date for free pie. Are you… are you just saying that _for_the free pie? Or do actually want this to be a… _fuck_, Cas, I don’t know what the hell is going on here.”

Well, that’s a simple enough thing to fix.

“I would like this to be a date,” Castiel says. “I would like to date you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean sits back against the booth and simply looks at Castiel, to the point where he’s not sure what kind of response he’s going to get—Dean has always treated him as if he’s special, as if the two of them are more than just friends, but perhaps he’s misread—

“Okay,” Dean says, and he breaks into a wide, radiant grin that Castiel had not been expecting but had been dearly hoping for. “Alright. It’s a date.”

~

When their server comes over to take their order and asks them how long they’ve been together for, Dean checks the time on his phone and tells her, “Three minutes, give or take.” When the main meal comes, they’re deep in conversation, as though nothing between them has ever changed.

And when their pie is brought out, they share slices, their fingers touching shyly across the tabletop and soft smiles bright enough to light the entire room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	19. Rockstar Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rockstar Dean attempts to win back Cas, his ex-boyfriend, by writing him a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [If I Can't Have You](http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTJ-oqwxdZY) by Shawn Mendes.

Dean looks out over the city lights of Toronto as the cold wind tousles his clothes, bites at his skin. His glass of whiskey, half-forgotten, is held in tightly curled fingers.

_This isn’t fucking sustainable, Dean. Running from country to country, chasing your highs, forgetting about everyone who helped you get where you are_.

It’s been two weeks. He’d thought time and distance would help, the endless string of shows and performances serving as a distraction, but it hasn’t. His thoughts keep returning to—

_It’s going to get to a point where you put your music, your _ego_, above me every time. It already is. You’re blind if you don’t see it._

He grits his teeth. It’s not selfish to want to be successful. He’s worked so hard to get here, and now that he’s finally achieved his dreams, he shouldn’t be told to step it back. People want more. _Everyone _wants more.

…_Almost _everyone.

_Goodbye, Dean_.

Dean’s hand shakes as he lifts the glass of whiskey to his lips. He takes a tasteless sip, looks out over the hollowly beautiful view for another minute, then turns and walks back into his room.

~

It’s 2am in Montreal, and Dean lies awake in his hotel room, looking at his phone.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this—he needs a clean break, otherwise it’s going to mess with his head. He trusts that Crowley knows what he’s been talking about, since it’s his management that’s made him so successful, and so he’s _tried _to stay away from everything that could remind him of…

Of Cas.

Clearly, he’s failing.

Every message that he scrolls past hurts more and more, every sweet flirtation or news about their respective days, shared comments and confessions of fears, aspirations, love. Cas’s absence burns like a hole in his heart, and reading his texts only makes it hurt so fucking much more.

Over and over, he reads: _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

Does Cas even still feel that way about him? Or has he moved on already, too over Dean and the consuming nature of his career to care?

As much as Dean wishes he could say the same, that he’s doing fine on his own and he’s happy…

It’s not the truth.

~

Dean’s hotel room in New York has all the comforts and luxuries that a young music star could ever want, but that’s not what he’s absorbed in right now. Instead, he’s a third of the way through the expensive bottle of rum that was provided to him as a courtesy from the hotel, drunkenly doodling images and random song lyrics into his notebook.

He’s trying to use his newfound insomnia to write new songs, but no matter what avenue he tries to take with his writing, or which themes he focuses on, his thoughts _always _come back to Cas.

_He _always comes back to Cas. And Cas always comes back to him—or he _has _done, for the last three years they’d been together.

But this time… Dean is starting to realize that Cas may not actually come back. No matter how many times he’s typed out a text, he’s deleted them every single time, and never actually had the guts to reach out.

Likewise, Cas hasn’t contacted him since the night that they fought. The night the he ended… _them_.

And that realization is fucking terrifying, because it’s starting to put things into perspective for Dean.

If he can’t stop thinking about Cas—not even when he’s onstage, or in his hotel with a glass of liquor, or even writing a brand new fucking song—then maybe he made a mistake in letting Cas walk away. Maybe he’s made the biggest fucking mistake of his life.

And if he can’t write a song that’s not about Cas… maybe he should stop trying not to.

He finishes the last of his glass, sets it down, then puts pen to paper and starts to write.

~

The song, in itself, is pretty simple. It’s Dean, in all his essence, saying all the things he would say to Cas and confessing just how much he’s missed him in the time they’ve been apart. It’s a long shot, he knows, and he might have done too much damage to their relationship already, but he _has _to try.

“Crowley,” he says into his phone, as he sandwiches it between his ear and his shoulder and fiddles around with guitar chords. “This tour is going to be my only one this year. I’ve gotta focus on other things. Can you make sure the press knows before my show tonight?”

“_What? _Dean, you—“

Dean cuts his manager off before he can get any further. “I’ve made my decision, Crowley, I won’t let you change my mind. Just get it done.” He hangs up the phone before Crowley can protest much more, and the accented squawking is cut off mid-rant. He’s got more important things to think about—like chord progressions, and performing a completely new song, and whether Cas is going to actually use the ticket and VIP pass that Dean had requested be delivered to his apartment this morning.

~

Dean sits in his dressing room, ten minutes before his show is due to start, and looks down at his phone. The news outlets have been going wild all day with the news that this will be his last and only tour for the year, but he couldn’t care less about that. Amongst all the people who have been texting him or tweeting at him, the one person he _really _cares about, _really _wants to hear from, has been radio silent. The most recent text in his conversation with Cas still just says _we need to talk_.

He tosses his phone onto the table in front of him and runs his hands through his hair. Regardless of whether Cas is here tonight, he’s still gonna play the song—he didn’t pull an all-nighter on it for nothing—but the longer it goes without hearing from him…

The more Dean worries that the damage he’s done is totally irreparable.

There’s a knock on his door.

“Come in!” he calls, spinning in his chair to face whoever needs his attention.

It’s Benny.

“Is he here?” Even if it’s not Cas at the door, Benny could still be bringing good news—news of Cas spotted in the venue, Cas waiting in the VIP area, Cas wanting to talk to Dean. Just from the look of Benny’s face, though, Dean can immediately tell that that’s not the case.

“Sorry, Dean. No one’s seen him. I’ve been sent to get you, the show’s supposed to start soon.” He opens his mouth, like he wants to say more, then closes it. “Good luck out there,” he says instead, and then the door closes again.

Dean tries not to deflate, tries not to let the news of Cas’s absence crush him more than it already feels like it is. A lot of people paid good money for their tickets tonight, and he still needs to give them what they came for, regardless of who may or may not be in the audience.

He pours himself a shot of whiskey, downs it in one quick swallow, then stands.

It’s time to put on a show.

~

“How are y’all doing?”

The stadium erupts in wild screaming that makes Dean’s blood thrum with adrenaline and electricity. _This _is why he loves performing live—the energy that he gets from the crowd has to be one of the most incredible sensations he’s ever felt in his life, and he smiles out at his audience.

“Alright, this next song is… kinda special, actually. I wrote it last night, and this is the first time I’m performing it for anyone, let alone several thousand anyones, so…” He laughs and shakes his head as he takes the offered acoustic guitar from a stagehand. “If it’s no good, then I’m sorry. But I wrote it for someone pretty f—_damn _amazing, and I was really dumb to let him go, so… if you’re out there, you know who you are.”

That’s all he can say right now, before his nerves and his fears get the better of him. There’s more, so much more, but it’s all for Cas’s ears only (if he ever gets a chance to say it) and so for now, he sits down on his stool, sets his guitar against his thigh, and begins to play.

_I can’t write one song that’s not about you…_

He can’t hear the audience past his earpieces, so he can get lost in the music, in the chords and his voice and the feelings that well up inside him. The hopelessness, the inability to move on, the longing and the feeling of _wrong time, wrong mindset_.

He sings out his feelings, everything he wishes he could say to Cas, closing his eyes halfway through and just letting himself go. So much to say, so much still left unsaid, so many feelings bottled up inside him with no way out. Even if Cas isn’t here to hear this tonight, at least it’s a start.

When he opens his eyes again, towards the end of the song, there’s a commotion by the front barriers, people turning to look at someone and the crowd making way for them and then—

And then Cas is standing there, pressed against the barrier and looking up at Dean, one person in a sea of thousands but the only person who matters most to Dean in this single moment.

His heart breaks open, raw and vulnerable, and he fumbles the next chord in front of an entire stadium full of people but it doesn’t matter because _Cas is here_. This means that maybe, _hopefully_, he’s willing to give Dean a second chance.

He plays the last few chords, sings the last few lines as he watches a reluctant smile tug at the corners of Cas’s mouth, and barely lets the last note ring out before he’s putting his guitar down and jumping down off the front of the stage. His security team move to intercept him as he nears the barriers, but Benny must say something into the comms, because they step down after only a moment.

There’s nothing standing in between him and Cas now but a metal barrier, and Dean closes the distance eagerly, as though it’s just the two of them and no one else. Cas reaches for him as he gets close, curls his fingers into the lapels of his jacket and kisses him. The crowd screams. Dean doesn’t care.

The kiss only lasts a few brief moments, but there’s _so much _in it. There’s relief, and frustration, and the joy of being reunited. There’s passion.

There’s _Cas_.

When they separate, Cas’s hands still cling to Dean’s jacket, as though he’s unwilling to let him drift away again. Dean leans close, the edge of the barrier biting into his chest. “You came,” he says, breathless and exhilarated. _Cas is really here_.

“I did.” His voice is quiet over the noise of the crowd. Dean leans in closer to hear him, always gravitating into his pull.

“You didn’t use the pass I gave you.”

Cas gives him a wry look, one eyebrow raised. “I bought my own ticket, Dean. Are you really cancelling the rest of the tours you were planning to do later this year?”

“Yeah. Someone made me realize that there are more important things than how many chart toppers I can release and how many stadiums I can sell out.” He pauses for a second, then adds, “It’s you, Cas. You’re the important thing. _And _the someone. Just in case it wasn’t clear.”

For the first time, Cas grins, wide and gummy and happier than Dean has seen him in a long time. “It was clear, Dean, but thank you. It means a lot to me that you’ve thought about what I said. Really.”

Dean’s heart flip flops in his chest, and he grins like an idiot. “I don’t know how I ever thought I could put anything above you, Cas. I… I need you. I want to make this work.”

The corners of Cas’s eyes crinkle. This time when he pulls Dean in for another kiss, it’s softer. Gentler. “Me too,” he says when they pull away, and the corners of his lips curl up. “I think you have a show to finish. I’ll meet up with you after?”

Dean can’t think of a more perfect way to end the night. “Deal,” he says, but as he turns away to head back up to the stage, Cas grabs him loosely by the wrist to get his attention back.

“Oh, and Dean?” He grins, and Dean leans back in, enthralled by him and whatever it is he has to add. Cas squeezes his wrist gently, his eyes soft.

“I really liked the song.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	20. Geek Cas/Jock Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jock Dean is head over heels for Cas.

Everyone knows that Castiel Novak is the class nerd. Always dressed in t-shirts with obscure references, his book bag covered in pins, worn red converse tied up tightly and the soles duct taped where they’re starting to come apart. His glasses are thick-rimmed, his hair is always a mess, but despite his somewhat eccentric appearance, he’s generally pretty well-liked. He’s smart, and nice (if a little quiet), and so people leave him alone.

And if it’s common knowledge that Castiel is the geek, then it’s also common knowledge that Dean Winchester is the soccer star who’s hopelessly head over heels for him.

Dean finds every excuse to be in Castiel’s vicinity, whether it’s studying a table over or talking to his friends nearby or even just picking a close seat in class. Around every other student in their classes, he’s smooth, confident, easy to talk to. Around Cas? Dean becomes a blushing mess, stammering his way through sentences. Every time he’s watching Castiel while the other boy isn’t looking, his heart eyes are almost palpable.

It feels as though the whole school is holding its breath, waiting for one of the two to make a move. There have been betting pools going for months as to how and when it will finally happen—but no one is expecting it when it does.

It’s raining outside, hard enough that the gym has flooded and the parking lot outside resembles the local swimming pool. The students already inside the school are all of various shades of damp to drenched, and it’s a few minutes before the first bell rings that Castiel and Dean make their way inside.

In one hand, Castiel holds his red converse, the canvas soaked and the duct tape beginning to peel off the soles. On his feet instead are a battered but clearly well-loved pair of boots—ones that everyone knows to be Dean Winchester’s pride and joy. His _Doctor Sexy _boots.

His other hand holds open the door behind him, and a moment later Dean follows him through, closing an umbrella and giving it a few shakes out for good measure. They share a smile as the door swings closed—a private smile, one just for the two of them—and crowd close almost without thinking. Shoulders touching, elbows bumping, Dean’s head ducked slightly down to Castiel’s level, they take each other’s hands.

Everyone knows that Dean and Castiel have been hopelessly in love with each other for the best part of a year—

And now, finally, it seems as though they know it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	21. Glassblowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel controls his fall by imbuing a tiny piece of his grace into every glassblown creation he makes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Foxymoley's](http://foxymoley.tumblr.com) birthday, and inspired by [this art](https://foxymoley.tumblr.com/post/185101479408/cas-blows-glass-and-puts-a-tiny-amount-of-his).

Ever since it began, Castiel has been terrified of falling.

For all of creation—or as much of it as he has existed for, at least—he has been an angel. An angel with wings, and grace. A warrior of heaven.

And then he met Dean, and he gave it all up, _everything_, for his Righteous Man.

Not that he regrets any of his decisions, not at all. He’d do anything for Dean. But the idea of falling, of suddenly being stripped of his grace… it scares him.

So he distracts himself.

He turns to different outlets; writing, crafts, creation. Castiel tries metalwork and knitting, pottery and poetry, but none of it works. None of it helps.

It’s only when he visits a glass studio, after weeks of searching for something that will work, that he finds what he’s been looking for. He spends hours sitting there, mesmerized by the artist and his slow, careful creation of a glassblown bowl. Half an hour before the studio is set to close, the man pauses in his work, raises his eyebrows at Castiel where he’s been quietly sitting and watching, and asks if he’d like to have a try.

Glassblowing, it turns out, is the perfect outlet for Castiel’s desperate need for a creative distraction. And, when he produces a tiny, glowing paperweight (much to the confusion of the glass artist), he finds that it also serves a completely different purpose entirely.

If he instils a tiny piece of his grace into each piece of art that he makes, then he can fall _slowly_. He’s still falling—he’s made his peace with that, mostly—but he gets to control it. He’s _choosing _his fall, and how he lets go of his grace, instead of losing it to fate.

And so he sets up, with Dean’s help, his very own studio in an old building outside the bunker. His request gets him an odd look at first, but Dean has long since learned not to question Castiel’s odd habits, so he goes along with it. Dean handles the ordering of all the supplies and equipment, and they work hard once everything has arrived to get it set up, until Cas has his very own glassblowing studio.

He’s known exactly what he wants to make for a while now, but it’s complicated in a few different ways, and it’s going to take some practice to reach that level of competence. Instead, he sets about first making smaller items, some practical and some purely artistic; blue-speckled twists or spheres of blown glass.

Slowly, he gets better and better at his craft, and with each piece that he creates, his grace is depleted further.

As he practices, he keeps thinking about that special idea. He doesn’t go as far as putting pencil to paper and _designing _it, but he thinks about it a lot, watches it take shape in his mind. When his next order of sand and oxides arrives, he experiments with the colours, the balance, until he gets it just right for what he’s been seeing in his head.

And then, one afternoon, when he’s finished all his other projects and is looking for something new to do…

He figures he may as well get started.

It takes a few tries—what Castiel has envisioned is complex, and he _is _technically still a novice glassblower—but after a few days, and his grace more expended than he’s used to, he manages to get it right. It’s with aching arms and skin damp with sweat that he steps back to admire his finished piece.

The glass takes hours to cool, and by the time Castiel is able to handle it with his bare hands, night has long since fallen outside. He wraps it carefully in a cloth and cradles it against his chest as he leaves his studio and makes his way back inside the bunker. Today has taken more out of him than he’d expected, and he feels… almost depleted. There’s not much of his grace left inside him, but that’s okay.

He makes his way through the bunker quietly, trying to figure out where Dean and Sam are. Sam is likely still in the library, buried in research for their newest case, but Dean… Dean could be anywhere.

Eventually, Castiel finds him in his room, lying on his bed and reading a dog-eared copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_. He clears his throat in the doorway, and Dean glances up, then sits up once he sees who it is. “Cas. Hey,” he says, closing the book and setting it aside on his nightstand. “You alright?”

“Yes, Dean.” A smile curls Castiel’s lips, and he shifts his grip on his armful of cloth and glass. “I’m alright. I… I have a gift for you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, gaze dropping to the bundle in Castiel’s arms and then returning to his face. “Something you made? For me?” Slowly, a small smile curls his lips, as though he can’t quite believe that Cas would _make _something for _him_. “Can I see?”

The bundle of cloth feels heavy in Castiel’s arms as he carries it over to Dean’s nightstand. He’s put so much of himself into this—so much of his emotion, his thoughts, his _grace_. Carefully, he sets the bundle down, then unwraps the cloth from it to reveal his gift.

It’s a lamp, made of glass as dark as the night sky. It’s tall and twisting and elegant, dotted with tiny pockets of glass that glow silver-blue. Beside him, Castiel hears Dean inhale sharply, and when he looks over, Dean’s eyes are wide.

“You… you made this for me?” he asks, and there’s an awed tone to his voice. “Cas, it’s beautiful, I—“

“Wait.”

Castiel reaches out to touch the base of the lamp, pressing his fingers to the only shallow indent in the glass creation. Slowly, the room dims, and a gentle blue light grows in the centre of the lamp, until there’s a glowing tendril within the glass that twists up from the base of the lamp to the very tip.

And on the walls, on the ceiling, projected onto every surface of the room, is the night sky.

Galaxies, collapsing stars, every marvel and wonder of space, here on the bedroom walls of Dean Winchester. For a good minute, they both look; Dean open-mouthed at the quiet beauty of Castiel’s piece, and Castiel with a soft gaze at the only person he would ever go to such lengths for in all of creation.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, and when his gaze returns to Castiel, his eyes are wide, and full of wonder. He’s smiling, wide and soft and full of the same emotion that thrums beneath Castiel’s sternum. “I… thank you. It’s beautiful.”

It’s everything that has been said between them, but also everything that is still yet to be said. They have a lifetime for those things, but now, Dean knows.

They sit side by side on Dean’s bed and watch the stars, and when Castiel quietly takes Dean’s hand and interlaces their fingers, neither of them are truly surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	22. Reversed Reverse!Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharply dressed demon Dean meets with scrappy punk angel Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written as a birthday gift for [c-kaeru](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com)!

The parking lot is empty. Abandoned. Overhead, the moon shines feebly through the obscuring veil of cloud, and the single strongest point of light emanates from a dusty streetlamp, washing over the cracked pavement.

Just outside the lamp’s reach sits a sleek, black car, and against the car leans a single man; suited, sharply dressed.

Waiting.

It’s been almost twenty minutes now, and it’s not unlike the person Dean’s meeting to be late—because when you’ve existed for so many millennia, what’s a few extra minutes here and there—but it’s beginning to make him antsy.

He paces back and forth, scuffing the sole of his Oxford lightly over the cracked, weed-sprouting pavement, then checks his watch once more. _Maybe he’s not coming_, he thinks—but then again, they’re both invested in this. They’re both _risking things _for this. Hopefully it’s just a matter of waiting him out until he decides to show.

Dean ducks down and checks his reflection in the window of his car—brushes a speck of debris from the curve of his horn, checks his hair, runs his tongue across the front of his teeth. His eyes flicker black, then return to their green colour, and he smirks at his reflection.

“Who are you trying to impress?”

The voice is gravelly, rough. Dean spins on his heel, angry at himself for letting his guard slip for just ten seconds out of twelve hundred, but relieved beyond anything that his waiting hasn’t been for nothing.

Solid black boots step into the pool of light cast by the lamp, attached to legs clad in dark, ripped jeans. The shoulders of the angel’s jacket are covered in patches, and tattoos curl out across the visible areas of his skin. The metal of his piercings and his silver-dappled wings catch the moonlight, the full expanse of dark feathers becoming visible as Castiel steps closer.

“Just myself,” Dean quips, and he feels his heart double-beat against his ribs at the way Cas smirks. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Not that I know of.” Cas takes a few steps forward, hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket and wings sweeping out around him as he moves. When Dean levels an unimpressed glare at him, he just chuckles quietly, the sound rich and full in the nighttime quiet. “You know no one followed me, Dean. No one can ever follow me unless I _want _them to.”

_He chases the angel away from the thick of the battle, his suit blending in with the darkness and power coiling at his fingertips. The angel looks over his shoulder, silver-black wings arched and defensive, blade gleaming in his hand. There’s no way he can see Dean._

_Or so he thinks—until he rounds a corner and finds himself pressed up against the side of the building without warning, an angel blade at his throat._

_He’s dead. He should be dead._

_…Why isn’t he dead?_

“Okay,” Dean admits begrudgingly, “that’s a fair point.” Despite the boots and the huge wings and the chain at his hip, Cas is really fucking good at being sneaky when he needs to. They haven’t been followed, then. It’s just them, in this abandoned parking lot inside Dean’s wardings. No politics, no never-ending war, just… them.

Castiel moves first, in measured footsteps and with an air about him that never fails to make Dean weak at the knees. His wings flare, stretching out wide in a captivating flex of muscle and ripple of feathers, and in a matter of seconds Dean finds himself backed up against his car. There’s barely an inch between them, Cas’s wings bracketing Dean on either side, and it’s a good thing that Dean doesn’t need to breathe because all he can focus on right now is the heat radiating off Castiel, and how fucking _good _the angel looks. He’d never thought he’d be one for the scruffy, rebellious types up in Heaven, but fuck, was he wrong.

Cas’s eyes drop down to Dean’s lips, then flick back up to meet his gaze. That _fucking smirk _is back, the one that drives Dean crazy so effortlessly. “You really know how to pick the locations,” Cas murmurs. This close, his voice is quiet, a deep rumble that resonates through to Dean’s bones and _certainly _goes straight to his dick. “You couldn’t have chosen somewhere with a bed this time? I guess demons _do _have a flair for the dramatic…”

“Shut up,” Dean growls. It’s too much talking, too much dancing around each other, and if this keeps going, he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. They only have so much limited time together.

Which is why he reaches up, curls his fingers into the front of Castiel’s jacket, and kisses him.

Like each of the previous times they’ve met, it’s quick, hurried, and _hot_. Their time is finite, precious, and there’s no point in wasting it. Dean knows that, and from the way Cas kisses him back like it’s the last time they’ll have together, hands finding their way beneath the layers of Dean’s suit and pressing him back against his car, he knows it too.

Cas takes great pleasure in making Dean come apart, mussing up his perfect exterior—and for a demon, the fact that Dean is _happy _to let Cas, an angel, do just that… it’s not something he wants to read too much into. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, he treasures these stolen moments with Cas. They’re from opposite sides, orderly evil and chaotic good, so much so that this, whatever it is between them, _shouldn’t exist_. But as they lie in the backseat of Dean’s car, Cas running an idle fingertip along the curve of Dean’s horn and Dean tracing the patterns of the tattoos that he now knows so well, both of them out of breath but sated and happier than they’ve been in a long time…

He can’t help but wish that things between them could be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	23. Space prison break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison officer Dean's ship crashes into the most infamous prison in the galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet now has an amazing podfic by [zaffre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffre/pseuds/zaffre)! Listen to it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345149).

Out on the very edges of the solar system, past the point where any civilian would dare to venture, Dean Winchester pilots the vessel 1MP4L4 towards one of the most notorious prisons in the galaxy.

Someone has to draw the short straw of doing the bi-monthly cargo run out to the prisoners and staff, and this time, that unlucky motherfucker is Dean. It’s a week-long trip in the old, slow spacecraft that the Alliance allocates to the lower-ranked corrections staff, and by now, Dean is so bored that he would give _anything _to be back at his desk filling out paperwork instead.

All it is is a routine cargo run.

At least, that’s what it was _supposed _to be.

Out of the emptiness of space, the prison slowly comes into view, a tiny speck that first blends in amongst the stars but finally solidifies itself as an actual structure. It’s remarkably unremarkable; dark metal against grey rock, built on a chunk of space debris orbiting an ancient moon. From looking at it, it’s almost impossible to discern that the prison houses only a small handful of the most dangerous enemies to the Alliance in the entire galaxy.

Dean knows better, though.

Once he’s almost in contacting distance, he settles himself into his pilot seat and buckles in, then prepares to engage the manual controls. Just an hour’s work of moving the cargo, and then he can begin the long trip back to civilisation. He rolls out his neck, reaches for the joystick, then flips the switch to engage his controls.

Nothing happens.

The ship doesn’t slow, doesn’t respond. The _manual _light doesn’t even turn on, so it’s not even _pretending _to be working. Instead, the 1MP4L4 continues to hurtle towards the prison at a speed suitable for interspace travel, but most certainly _not _ideal for approaching his destination, let alone a finicky docking routine.

“What the fuck,” Dean mutters, flicking the switch off and then on again. When it doesn’t work, he swears again, louder and more creatively. Dean reaches for the comms button and presses it with one hand, the other still frantically trying to engage the manual control. “Detainment Facility Delta, this is cargo envoy One-India-Miko-Four-Lima-Four, manual controls have failed and I cannot override the autopilot. I repeat, _manual controls have failed and I cannot override the autopilot_.” There’s no response, just crackling static from the prison’s end, but suddenly that becomes the least of Dean’s problems.

An error appears on his screen, and Dean’s eyes widen as he reads it.

_Foreign control identified. Manual override unavailable._

“Mayday, mayday!” he shouts, trying every possible solution he knows as his ship hurtles towards the prison that is now growing rapidly larger in his front window. If he can’t shut it down, he’s royally fucked. This is _not _how he wanted to go—smashed into tiny pieces against the side of the most remote prison in the galaxy, just because his ship refused to obey him.

He’s frantic now, pressing any button that might even remotely help while shouting into his comms unit, but none of them help. In fact, none of them have _any _effect at all. Something else is in control of Dean’s ship now, and it’s all he can do to brace himself and hope that he makes it out alive.

The prison looms closer and closer, and the ship doesn’t stop, just keeps hurtling directly towards the prison wall. Dean watches as he passes through the outer shield, the gravity zone, the oxygen bubble. There’s no hope, now.

He braces himself against the control panel and closes his eyes—

The ship brakes at the very last second, just enough to lessen the impact slightly, but it’s far too late.

There’s a _bang_, and a split second where Dean feels all his forward momentum just _stop_, and then everything goes black.

~

The dust is slow to clear as Castiel Novak stands in the very back corner of his cell and uncovers his face to reveal the aftermath of the crash.

His little computer, cobbled together from reused tele-screen and cleaning robot parts, lies discarded in the corner, no longer of use. It served its purpose of hacking into both the mainframe of the cargo ship and in overriding the locking mechanism of his cell, and now freedom is within his grasp.

The dust from his half-destroyed cell wall settles to reveal the nose of the cargo ship where it intrudes into Castiel’s cell. The old ships are slow but sturdy, and Castiel had _hoped _that it would be enough to break through, but actually seeing his success is so much more invigorating than he could ever have planned.

The front window looks a little cracked, and he can see the silhouette of the pilot inside, slumped in his chair, but neither of those facts concern him right now. As long as everything holds together long enough for him to make it to the nearest port and disappear, he’ll be home scot-free.

Not wanting to waste any time before the wardens arrive at his cell and find that it can’t be unlocked, Cas clambers over the stones from the wall and hits the button for the ship’s hatch to open. For the first time in six months, he’s going to be _free _again, and he can’t wait.

He’s quick to make his way through to the cockpit, barely giving the pilot a second glance as he leans over the control panel and does a quick assessment of the damage. Cracked window, as he’d suspected, and a few failed shield-points, but nothing crucial to his escape. “You’re a sturdy lady,” he murmurs, then sets about priming the ship for take-off.

Now that Castiel’s device is no longer blocking communications, the warden’s voice and threats come crackling through the speakers, but he simply switches them off. He needs to focus, despite the satisfaction in hearing that he’s bested the Alliance once again.

The ship’s computer lights up, telling Castiel that he’s ready to depart, and he can’t keep the grin off his face as he wraps his fingers around the joystick. He’d told the wardens that they wouldn’t be able to hold him, and they’d laughed at him, but now…

Once again, all of space is his oyster.

Castiel pulls back on the joystick, settles into the controls of his stolen ship, and gives the prison a middle finger salute as he speeds away.

~

It’s only once he’s been flying for about an hour and put a decent amount of distance between himself and the prison that Castiel lets himself consider the man still strapped into the pilot’s seat behind him.

From the shallow rise and fall of his chest, it’s clear that he’s still alive, at least, but whether he was injured in the crash, Cas can’t be sure. There’s a cut on his forehead that’s been bleeding sluggishly, and he still hasn’t come to, but the longer he can stay unconscious, the better that is for Castiel.

Unfortunately, the guy doesn’t stay out for long.

Castiel has just finished tying his hands together behind the chair when he begins to stir, his head lolling and eyelashes fluttering. He’s pretty, Castiel had noticed earlier—skin dotted with freckles, nice cheekbones, full lips. And when his eyes open, slowly and hazed with confusion…

They’re a shade of green that Castiel hasn’t seen in so long that it takes his breath away.

“What th’ fuck…”

Castiel takes a sharp step back as the man’s bleary gaze focuses on him. The guy squints, his nose crinkling, and in that moment before the realisation kicks in, he’s truly beautiful.

And then his eyes widen, and he sucks in a quick breath.

“_Castiel __Novak_.”

Castiel should have known that his reputation would precede him, especially among those who work for the Alliance. Hell, he’s been paid to kill so many of their corrupt administration so many times that he’d be surprised if he _wasn’t _mentioned in the training of new cadets as public enemy number one. But seeing this beautiful man close off before his eyes…

It stings a little.

“That’s me,” he says, lips quirking up in a quick, tight smile. “And you are?”

The man pulls against the ropes binding his hands—sluggishly, like he still isn’t _fully _conscious yet—and scowls. “Winchester,” he bites out after a few moments. Castiel raises his eyebrow and waits patiently for a handful more seconds, until the guy adds a reluctant;

“…Dean.”

“Well, Dean,” Castiel says, turning back towards the control panel. “Nice to meet you. I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances, but…” He shrugs one shoulder, tapping the computer screen and making a few adjustments to the autopilot’s trajectory. “Desperate times and all that. And now that you’re aiding and abetting my escape, I doubt you really want me to let you go. So I’m very sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”

The guy—_Dean_—blinks at him. Castiel hopes that it’s the concussion slowing his thought processes and not the fact that he’s been saddled with an idiot, otherwise he’s going to let him off at the nearest port, pretty face or not.

“You’re really that dangerous that the Alliance would rather kill me than accept me back into their ranks, huh?” Dean says quietly, leaning his head back against the chair and watching Castiel with an unreadable expression.

Castiel rolls his eyes and leans one hip against the control panel—he doesn’t miss the way Dean’s gaze follows the movement, or the way his eyes flick over his silver jumpsuit, to his lips, up to his eyes. _Interesting_. “Trust me, _Dean_,” he murmurs, “I’m more dangerous than anyone you’ve ever met. If you want to be let off at the next station and risk your luck with the Alliance, fine by me. But I’ve killed members of the Alliance, and I’ve killed _for _members of the Alliance, so you might want to listen when I tell you that you’re better off sticking with the interplanetary assassin than you are going back to your employers. _Especially _if they think you were even partly responsible for my escape.”

Dean stares at him, his thoughts clearly processing behind those pretty green eyes. It’s a lot to lay on someone all at once—and to be honest, Castiel isn’t even really sure _why _he’s giving the guy this option. He _should _just be getting rid of him, but there’s something about this man; whether it’s his attractiveness or the way he’s watching Castiel, thoughtfully, with an _edge _behind his eyes that suggests that he might be able to keep up with Cas instead of slowing him down.

Either way, he’s intrigued.

For a few long moments, the only sound between them is the humming of the ship’s engine and the quiet whirr of the control panel. Dean bounces his leg as he thinks, but his gaze never leaves Castiel’s face.

Finally, he nods. “Yeah,” he says, quietly at first, and then more decisively. “Yeah, okay. I’ll stay with you at least until I see how the Alliance reacts to your escape—but if I change my mind, you’ll let me go, yeah?”

Castiel shrugs, allowing himself a pleased smile at Dean’s decision. “Of course. But—“

He cuts himself off as the computer screen flashes with an Alliance-issued emergency announcement. Two photos flash up: one of Castiel’s mugshot, and the other of Dean’s staff ID photograph. _Dangerous fugitives_, the text reads. _Apprehend at all costs_.

Dean pales slightly as he stares at his own photograph, whereas Castiel just chuckles. He pats Dean on the thigh as he circles around the chair, then pulls his knife out of his belt and slices through the ropes binding Dean’s hands.

“Would you look at that,” he murmurs next to Dean’s ear. “Looks like you’re an outlaw now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	24. 100 word drabbles (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short drabbles from the profound100 game run on the [Profound Bond discord](https://discord.gg/ARS3D3C).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Storm (with stunning [art](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com/post/181781690205/saltnhalo-thunder-rumbles-overhead-as-he) from [MidnightSilver](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com)). 2: Bunny. 3: Fire. 4: Coffee. 5: Dolphin. 6: Letters. 7: Rose. 8: Danger. 9: Folklore. 10: Inferno. 11: Luck. 12: Hunger (with [graphic](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com/post/185383595865/missjenniferb-saltnhalo-dean-kneels-in-the) by [MidnightSilver](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com)). 13: Stripper. 14: Runaway. 15: Towel. 16: Egg. 17: Baby. 18: Prophecy. 19: Prank. 20: Ocean. 21: Glass. 22: Spirit. 23: Pride. 24: Photograph. 25: Competition. 26: Roadtrip. 27: Moon. 28: Craving. 29: Graffiti. 30: Undercover.

1.

Thunder rumbles overhead as he unfurls his great wings, black feathers stretching towards the achingly grey sky. The storm builds, clouds gathering above and the wind whipping across the hilltop, pulling at the lone angel’s trench coat.

His wings are battle-scarred and broken, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his grief. So many dead, so much lost, and he feels it all. He tips his face towards the darkened sky—towards his home, now unreachable, his feet moored to this earth.

A single tear tracks down his cheek as the skies open; soon, it is lost amongst the rain.

(all art [here](https://midnightsilver.tumblr.com/post/181781690205/saltnhalo-thunder-rumbles-overhead-as-he))

2.

Castiel and Sam watch Dean from a distance as he glares down at the table, where the rabbit’s foot sits innocently in front of him. So far today, since he found it in the storage locker they’ve been cleaning out, he’s shattered a carton of vials, misplaced his favourite gun, and burnt the burgers that were meant for dinner.

“When are you planning to tell him that it’s a fake foot from a toy bunny?” Castiel turns his gaze on Sam, who tries (and fails) to hide his grin behind his hand.

“Soon, Cas. This is the best prank ever.”

3.

Dean has been hurt so many times in his life. He’s been kicked, punched, stabbed, thrown through walls. He’s watched his family and his friends die, and he’s spent forty long years in hell.

He’s endured so much pain, in life and even in death, and yet.

This is a grief so raw that it feels like it’s tearing him apart, as he watches the flames of the fire burn steadily on. Lighting that pyre was the most painful thing he’s ever done, because he _knows_. No matter how much he hopes or prays or begs…

Cas isn’t coming back.

4.

Cas is always a grumpy son of a bitch in the mornings.

For a long time, he’d been totally insufferable—glaring at the world as though it had done him a personal offense. The only thing that ever fixed his mood was a large cup of coffee, and it was always Dean who made it for him, greeting him with a mug and a smile every morning.

Nowadays, though, they don’t need coffee. Dean wakes Castiel up slowly, with drowsy kisses and fingertips skating over skin, limbs tangled loosely beneath rumpled sheets and the dawn quietly breaking outside their window.

5.

Far above the trees, where the clouds touch the sky and that blue-white openness is all the eye can see, Castiel flies. He is to the sky what a dolphin is to the waves; beautiful, elegant, powerful. This is his home, and he owns it with grace, great black wings flexing to catch every current and updraft. The wind blows against his hair, his feathers, and he laughs joyfully.

Dean stands on the ground, his feet forever shackled to the earth. With one hand lifted to shade his eyes from the brightness of the sun, he watches, and he longs.

6.

Six months ago, Dean lost his best friend.

A car accident, he'd found out, staring disbelievingly at the ceiling of his bedroom with his phone pressed against his ear. His heart had been irreparably broken that day. Cas had been his everything, and Dean…

Dean never got to tell him how he felt.

He sits by the fogged up bedroom window now and traces letters onto the glass. _I love you _, they say—words Cas will never hear, never know how deeply Dean means them.

Dean stares at the frost-inked words until they blur, silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

7.

They learned how to do this at school last week, and now Dean focuses all of his magic into the patch of earth before him. Slowly, a plant sprouts, growing and unfurling until it becomes a single, red-petaled rose. Dean grins giddily, risking a glance over at the other young witch who kneels beside him. Cas is looking at the rose with wide eyes, and when he glances over at Dean, he smiles, bright and radiant.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Cas,” he says, and he doesn’t get to say much more before Cas kisses him.

8.

“…Dean… discovered… in danger—get out… got to go… safe…—ove you.”

The message ends. The phone is dropped onto the floor: one sharp stomp shatters it into pieces.

The man surveys his captor, tied to the metal chair in front of him with his head lolling against his chest. It’s only a matter of time before he wakes, and not much longer until their plan—their _trap_—will fall into place. He smiles, sharp and cold and ruthless, and in the darkness of the room, his eyes flicker to black.

They have the bait. Now the angel will come.

9.

The forest is steeped in folklore and mystery. So many people have stories of a daughter, a husband, someone beloved who disappeared beyond those trees and never returned.

Dean knows the stories. He’s one of the few people that doesn’t have one. No one close to him has been coerced by the darkness that lurks beyond the safety of torchlight and the village walls, and no one has ever gone in of their own accord.

Until Dean wakes one cold morning to an empty bed and a trail of footprints leading towards the forest.

That night, he becomes the first.

10.

Dean doesn’t get sick often, but when he does, it puts him fully out of commission.

Somehow, this time feels worse than usual, his body burning up like an inferno. He’s too hot and too cold all at once, and he shakes feverishly, curled up beneath mounds of blankets. Sam comes and goes, keeping an eye on him, but Cas is a constant presence by his side. “I wish I could heal you,” he whispers, when he thinks Dean can’t hear.

In his rare moments of lucidity, Dean wishes he could tell him:

E_ven without your grace, you are enough_.

11.

Dean plays to his looks, his youth, the naivety of _what could possibly go wrong?_when he bets fifty dollars on himself to win. In the first game, he loses, leaning on his cue stick as he pleas with the regulars for a rematch.

When they agree, the stakes doubled, is when things start to go wrong. Dean sinks his balls with practiced ease, trouncing his opponents soundly and with a smirk that never wavers. The naïve façade is gone—except, as he collects his winnings after the game, he shrugs one shoulder and grins.

“Must have been beginner’s luck.”

12\. 

Dean kneels in the middle of the floor; a mockery of worship with his ink-black eyes and the curve of a smirk that never truly disappears. He kneels, and he waits, bound by red paint on rough concrete and the whispered order of “_wait_.”

He has lost track of how much time has passed before the doors open. When he looks up, there is hunger in his gaze, in the way he holds himself.

The angel scrapes at the paint with his foot. The devil’s trap breaks.

Slowly, Dean rises to his feet.

“Come, Dean. We have work to do.”

13.

Dean is washing his car in the garage when he hears footsteps behind him, feels a warm body press up behind his back. “Hey there,” he says with a grin, ignoring his cleaning for a second to lean back against Cas.

“Hello yourself,” Cas murmurs, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Dean’s low-slung daisy dukes. “I think I like these better off than on.”

Dean groans at the tease. “I’m not some kind of stripper, babe, _although_…” He rests his head back against Cas’s shoulder and smirks. “If you ask nicely, I could be persuaded to give you a show.”

14\. 

When Dean Winchester leaves the motel on his own with a duffel on his shoulder, it is raining.

Castiel watches the teenaged runaway from the shelter of a building as he wipes at his eyes and climbs into the car. There is no telling where he will go, how long he will leave for, what he will do. It is Castiel’s job to do nothing but watch and report, even when he aches for the boy in his search for guidance, for love.

There are big plans for that human. It is too early to interfere.

The rain continues on.

15\. 

It’s a little while before Cas finally gets comfortable being in Dean’s space. 

He’s been worried about crossing the lines that Dean has drawn for so many years, and it takes a lot of coaxing and reassurance to get him to loosen up and trust that this isn’t a trick. Whether it’s holding hands over morning coffee, or wandering around in just a towel post-shower, or falling asleep together every night, Dean _wants _Cas with him.

They’ve missed out on so much, in all the time that Dean’s wasted being a dumbass. It’s time they start making up for it.

16.

Dean had thought everything would change, in the _after_, but in reality… it hasn’t.

He’s in his bathrobe, nursing a mug of coffee while he cracks eggs into the pan and watches them cook. For now it’s just him, standing alone in the kitchen while he makes breakfast and lets himself slowly wake up. It’s a morning just like any other morning, and yet.

An arm wraps around his waist, a warm body pressing against his back. Cas’s chin rests on his shoulder, and he wordlessly reaches down to borrow Dean’s coffee.

Dean smiles, soft and happy. _There’s _the change_._

17.

Dean’s car has always been his sanctuary.

He’s lived in her for as long as he can remember, his initials carved into her door, his lego blocks rattling in the vents. Every piece of her is home to him. Whenever he needs his space, he’ll get behind the wheel of his Baby and drive—wherever, whenever, with no set location in mind. Nothing but him and the open road.

Back when he was alone, it didn’t matter where he went. Now, though, no matter how upset he is, how far he drives… he always returns.

To the bunker.

To Cas.

18.

Ever since the beginning of his creation, Castiel has known of the prophecy.

One day, a human will walk the earth, and he will be Castiel’s soulmate. He will be the one who makes Castiel’s grace sing, who completes him in a way no other being could, who was created _just for him_.

But he is the only angel with a human soulmate. It cannot be allowed.

When he finally feels the pull in his grace after thousands of years of waiting, Castiel looks down from Heaven to the one place he has never been permitted to go, and _yearns_.

19.

The Winchester prank war is flaring up again.

There’s no way to avoid it—it’s a cycle that Sam and Dean have been going through for years, ever since they were kids. This time, Dean is winning, Sam is off sulking in the library, and Cas is clearly getting more and more fed up with their bullshit. Dean is sure that he’s going to come out the champion this time—

Until he wakes up the next morning to find all their jars of coffee grounds encased in ice, and Cas sitting smugly at the breakfast table.

“Son of a _bitch_.”

20.

Castiel stands at the edge of the ocean and looks out over the waves.

So many millennia ago, he’d stood at a spot similar to this one. He’s seen empires rise and fall, life begin and end, people come and go. He is ageless, timeless, ever-present in a world that has changed drastically in what feels like a mere blink of an eye.

So sometimes, when he puts that into perspective…

It’s overwhelming to realize that the years he has spent on earth with the Winchesters have meant more to him than anything in the rest of his whole existence.

21.

Cas pushes Dean against the wall, hands fisted in his jacket, body warm and solid. “You _idiot_,” he growls, “you could have been _killed_.”

Dean can’t think, not when Cas is this close, with that fire in his eyes and a growl that makes Dean weak at the knees. He’s thought about kissing Cas so many times, and now they’re _so close_, he could just reach out and _do_it.

But he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. The silence stretches out between them, fragile and tenuous like spun glass.

In the end, Castiel is the one who turns away.

22.

Castiel likes college sports.

Not because of the sports themselves. No, he likes college sports because of the cheerleaders—and one cheerleader in particular.

The guy with bright green eyes and a spirited grin never fails to capture Cas’s attention. He throws himself into every routine with skill and enthusiasm, and Castiel still can’t work out whether it’s hotter to watch him do handsprings and round-offs, or lift a girl into the air with effortless ease. Either way, he’s fucking gorgeous, and Castiel doesn’t think he stands a chance—

Until the cheerleader catches Castiel’s eye after the game and waves.

23.

For the first time in his life, when Dean hears of the pride march taking place in KC, he doesn’t head in the opposite direction. Instead, he _just happens _to take Cas out on a mini-road trip that day, and they _just happen _to encounter the march as it’s underway, in all its rainbow glory.

They watch from the sidelines, and it’s a while before Dean manages to choke out the words, “I think I’m bi.”

Cas just keeps watching the parade, but the corners of his eyes crinkle. He’s happy. _Proud_.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Dean.”

24.

It’s the summer, and Dean and Castiel are on the open road, windows rolled down and empty highway stretching out ahead for miles. In a rare moment of weakness, when Castiel had asked if he could drive for a little while, Dean had said yes. He looks gorgeous behind the wheel—sleeves rolled up, hair tousled by the breeze, blue eyes fixed on the road and lips curled in a half-smile.

Dean can’t help but lift his phone and snap a photo of him. It’s too perfect not to capture; a perfect moment in a perfect day with his angel.

25.

It becomes, like almost everything between them, a competition.

“Whoever hunts the most monsters,” Cas says over the dinner table. “They get to do it.”

“Deal.”

Dean finds a few werewolves up north, a ghoul or two. Gets a string of cases that lead him west. By the time he returns to the bunker, he’s exhausted but confident in his win.

Until Cas returns, having taken out four different vampire nests in Missouri. Begrudgingly, but not overly upset, Dean admits defeat. He would have liked to win, but he won’t complain about this outcome either.

Two nights later, Cas proposes.

26.

Once high school is done, and education gives way to a dry, hot summer of freedom and the absence of authority, Castiel and Dean go on a roadtrip.

They don’t know exactly where they’re going—and really, isn’t that the fun of it? All that’s important is their car, and their music, and each other’s company. They’ve been friends for as long as they can remember, _more _after Dean asked Cas to homecoming with him, and now it just… makes sense. With the open road stretching out ahead, and a blossoming romance between them, the world is theirs to conquer.

27.

The full moon is high, and Dean’s hands are dirt-caked and sore from work. He sits in his garden, amongst the silver-washed grass, and feels the strength of the garden’s magic wash over him. These late nights are always worth it for the power that the moon gives him.

A shadow passes overhead, but Dean doesn’t look up, just smiles as the crow settles onto the ground beside him. There’s a breath of wind, and then Cas is leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder. They share a tired smile, and their hands find each other, fingers intertwining despite the dirt.

28.

As Castiel falls, and becomes human, he gets the chance to discover the world all over again. He has a different perspective on mortality now. Every sunrise is limited, and so he makes it his mission to watch as many as he can. He tastes differently, has _cravings _for certain foods and discovers which ones he can’t stand. He learns how to interact with people.

He learns how to _kiss_, and how to love.

Because even better than watching the sunrises, or learning the nuances of being human… is spending his moments with Dean, just the two of them.

_Together_.

29.

In the college library, tucked away in the back corner and seldom seen, is a desk.

It is one desk in a row of desks, but the wood-inscribed words make it special. It began as doodles and random thoughts, but the next week, there were new words, in a different hand.

A _conversation_.

It continued like this—anonymous conversations conveyed through graffiti. When they ran out of desk space, they swapped to a hidden notebook, and then, at the end of term, decided to meet at that very desk.

And Dean and Castiel Winchester have been together ever since.

30.

It’s six months before he returns. Six months of not knowing, of worrying. Dean is good at his job, Castiel knows, but… six months undercover is such a long time, even for the best officer. He tries not to worry, even as the days tick by.

“Detective Winchester!”

Castiel looks up from his paperwork with a frown, trying to locate whoever called his name. He’s _busy_, for fuck’s sake—

But none of his colleagues are looking towards him. Instead, they’re looking towards the precinct entrance. He turns to look, and there, standing at the entrance of the bullpen…

Is Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Storm](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181695971184/thunder-rumbles-overhead-as-he-unfurls-his-great). 2. [Bunny](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/181859083584/one-word-prompt-bunny). 3. [Fire](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182022309264/dean-has-been-hurt-so-many-times-in-his-life-hes). 4. [Coffee](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182227782979/saltnhalo-cas-is-always-a-grumpy-son-of-a-bitch). 5. [Dolphin](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182419673444/far-above-the-trees-where-the-clouds-touch-the). 6. [Letters](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182890306149/six-months-ago-dean-lost-his-best-friend-a-car). 7. [Rose](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/182906131334/they-learned-how-to-do-this-at-school-last-week). 8. [Danger](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/183279871234/dean-discovered-in-dangerget-out-got-to-go). 9. [Folklore](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185285010454/the-forest-is-steeped-in-folklore-and-mystery-so). 10. [Inferno](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185293585889/dean-doesnt-get-sick-often-but-when-he-does-it). 11. [Luck](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185293813269/dean-plays-to-his-looks-his-youth-the-naivety-of). 12. [Hunger](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185307268849/dean-kneels-in-the-middle-of-the-floor-a-mockery). 13. [Stripper](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185340921754/dean-is-washing-his-car-in-the-garage-when-he). 14. [Runaway](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185351262624/when-dean-winchester-leaves-the-motel-on-his-own). 15. [Towel](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185495623124/its-a-little-while-before-cas-finally-gets). 16. [Egg](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185520303774/dean-had-thought-everything-would-change-in-the). 17. [Baby](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185536248629/deans-car-has-always-been-his-sanctuary-hes). 18. [Prophecy](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185542119249/ever-since-the-beginning-of-his-creation-castiel). 19. [Prank](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185582142794/the-winchester-prank-war-is-flaring-up-again). 20. [Ocean](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185587556609/castiel-stands-at-the-edge-of-the-ocean-and-looks). 21. [Glass](http://https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185746098899/cas-pushes-dean-against-the-wall-hands-fisted-in). 22. [Spirit](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185746620979/castiel-likes-college-sports-not-because-of-the). 23. [Pride](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185747910569/for-the-first-time-in-his-life-when-dean-hears-of). 24. [Photograph](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185768860484/its-the-summer-and-dean-and-castiel-are-on-the). 25. [Competition](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/185977839114/it-becomes-like-almost-everything-between-them-a). 26. [Roadtrip](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186304901019/once-high-school-is-done-and-education-gives-way). 27. [Moon](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186328811664/the-full-moon-is-high-and-deans-hands-are). 28. [Craving](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186387281904/as-castiel-falls-and-becomes-human-he-gets-the). 29. [Graffiti](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186653023209/in-the-college-library-tucked-away-in-the-back). 30. [Undercover.](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186666881409/its-six-months-before-he-returns-six-months-of)


	25. Printer troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's neighbour accidentally prints his steamy romance novel on Dean's printer.

It’s a seemingly uneventful Saturday afternoon, and Dean is lounging on his couch, playing through Uncharted 2 for the third time and just generally living his best life. It’s been a long week of work, he’s been looking forward to the weekend for what feels like forever now, and god damn it, he’s going to enjoy it totally uninterrupted.

Or, at least, that was his plan.

Apart from the video game audio, his apartment is quiet, undisturbed—so when the printer in the corner of his lounge room suddenly whirs to life, he almost jumps a foot in the air.

Nathan Drake misses his jump and slips off the edge of a cliff, but Dean’s focus is now very much focused on the seemingly-haunted printer that is now happily whirring to itself and beginning to spit out sheets of paper.

“What the fuck?” he mutters to himself, setting aside his controller and swinging his legs off the couch. In all the years he’s owned his printer, and all the work paperwork he’s had to print off with it, he’s run a whole gambit of different problems, but this—his printer spontaneously printing something he definitely didn’t order it to… this is definitely different.

Dean takes a few steps closer and eyes the pages suspiciously. They’re not blank (but at least they’re not printing in _colour_, since that shit is expensive), and instead are full of words. Pages and pages of words. Where the fuck have they come from?

He pulls out a page at random and lets his eyes scan over the text, just browsing to see if anything jumps out at him as familiar.

_Jacob bit down on his bottom lip, looking up at Ryan from where he knelt between the man’s spread legs. Slowly, he leaned forward, lips parted, and took the head of Ryan’s cock into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around Ryan’s cock, then bobbed his head further, taking more of the shaft into his mouth. “Fuck,” Ryan moaned, tangling his fingers into Jacob’s hair and holding him in place._

Dean’s eyes go saucer-wide.

His printer is printing… _porn_.

_Someone is using his printer to print porn_.

And not just any porn—this porn is _very _gay, _very _explicit, and… well, actually surprisingly well-written.

A muffled thump sounds from the apartment next door, followed by a male voice raised loud enough that Dean can hear him through the wall, but not enough that he can make out any of the words.

The printer continues to happily spit out its explicit contents, and Dean looks down at the page in his hands, then at the wall he shares with his neighbor.

_Well, then_.

~

Dean does what any self-respecting bisexual would do, and spends the afternoon reading his neighbor’s erotic novel.

Well, _most _of it, at least. Unfortunately for him, his printer stops printing at around the seventy-three page mark, leaving the climax of the story (so to say) uncompleted and unresolved. It’s frustrating, to say the least, and Dean is definitely feeling more than a little blue-balled.

Which is why, all seventy-three pages in hand, he finds himself knocking on the door to his neighbor’s apartment approximately two hours later.

Honestly, Dean isn’t entirely sure if this is the right thing to be doing. What’s the protocol for when your neighbor (who he’s only met once or twice, and is admittedly hot but quiet), prints out seventy-three pages of steamy erotic fiction with your printer?

Either way, as the door swings open, he realizes that it’s too late to turn back now.

“Hello, I—oh, fuck.”

The guy’s eyes go wide, and Dean watches as two twin spots of colour appear on his cheeks, deepening until he’s blushing fiercely.

“Hey,” Dean says, in lieu of anything else, because what the fuck _should _he say in a situation like this? “I, um. You.” He lifts the sheaf of paper in the air and waves it. “I think this is yours?”

The guy stares helplessly at the paper in Dean’s hand, as though if he wishes hard enough, he can will it out of existence. It becomes clear after a few moments that that isn’t going to work, though, so instead he just gives a long-suffering sigh and says, “Yes, I think you’re right.”

“Do you make a habit of printing out gay porn onto your neighbors’ printers?” Dean asks, a smile curling his lips.

“Not particularly,” the guy grumbles, reaching out a hand and taking the stack of paper from Dean. “In my defense, though, your printer was unsecured. I didn’t even know people _did _that, so. The blame cannot be placed entirely on me.” He pauses, fingers curving around the edge of his paper and mouth pulling down for a moment. “I apologize if it made you uncomfortable, though,” he says quietly.

Dean scoffs and shakes his head. “Dude, you serious? No way—it was actually really good. I was kinda mad that you figured out how to cancel it, though, ‘cause the ending didn’t print. That’s kinda why I came over here, actually—part of it, anyway. I’d like to know how everything ends, if you’ve got more of it for me to read.”

The man looks at him for a handful of seconds, scrutinizing—as though he’s trying to figure out if Dean’s interest is truly genuine. He must decide that it is, though, because his lips slowly curve up into a smile, and the defensive look in those blue eyes softens. “I do have more,” he confirms, taking a half-step back out of his doorway. “Would you like to come in?”

“I’d love that,” Dean says with a grin. “I’m Dean, by the way. Should I just keep referring to you in my head as ‘hot guy with an even hotter novel,’ or…?”

“Castiel,” the guy says, and god, that name sounds sinfully good in that deep voice of his. A shiver runs the length of Dean’s spine. “My name is Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	26. Otter vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel takes Dean for a getaway up to Alaska.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday gift for [otter](http://otterlunacy.tumblr.com)!

The Winchesters work hard. There’s no doubt about it—they’re the best in the business, they’ve saved the world many times over, and the jobs never stop coming.

But every once in a while, they take a day off. Even hunters have to unwind, and when Dean finds Cas asleep face down in a pile of books one evening, he decides enough is enough.

Sam is perfectly fine not joining them on their retreat, as he repeatedly insists. To be fair, it might be because of the number of times he’s been scarred by them on their vacations, but Dean has no shame when it comes to that kind of stuff. Instead, Sam opts to stay back in the bunker—probably to go get his hair done or frequent every bookstore in the tri-state area, or whatever it is he does when Dean and Cas aren’t around.

Which leaves the two of them to plan their mini-getaway. Dean won’t lie, it definitely is nice being married to an angel and not having to worry about travel time or flying tin-can deathtraps.

“Where would you like to go?” Castiel asks. They sit side by side on their bed, and Cas gently traces his thumb over the knuckles of Dean’s hand where it rests in his lap. It’s been a long fuckin’ month, and Dean is so ready to just relax somewhere with his husband.

“Somewhere quiet,” he mutters, leaning his head against Cas’s shoulder and losing himself in the gentle touches. “I don’t want to see any other people. Just you, and me, and a comfy bed with some beers and a scenic view.”

The corners of Castiel’s lips curve upwards, and he nods. “I think I know the place. Hold on,” he says, and Dean barely has time to tighten his grip on Cas’s hand before they’re flying. The whole experience takes only a fraction of a second, as Castiel always tells him, but it still feels like a fucking lifetime as he holds onto his husband and tries not to barf.

Then the ground under his feet becomes stable once more, and Dean opens his eyes, drawing in a single sharp breath.

They stand on the edge of a pebbled beach looking out over the open water. The air is crisp, pure, and the only sounds to break the silence is the gentle lap of waves and the occasional call of a far-off bird. Mountains rise around them, bracketing in the peaceful cove, and when Dean turns to take in the rest of the spectacular beauty, he sees a small cabin nestled amongst the trees, lit in golden yellow from inside and with smoke gently curling out of the chimney and dissipating into the sky.

“Wow,” he breathes, almost afraid to speak for feat of disturbing the serenity. “This… this is beautiful, Cas. Where are we?”

Castiel is smiling, eyes closed and face upturned towards the sun. It’s a little cool, but beneath the clear summer sky, it’s nothing short of perfect. “Alaska,” Cas murmurs, giving Dean’s hand a squeeze. When he opens his eyes to look over at Dean, the pure contentment in his smile and behind his bright blue eyes is clear to see. “I used to come here a lot, to this cove. It’s always been peaceful, and the animals here were lovely to talk to—which, now that I mention…”

He turns back towards the water, shielding his eyes against the sun and squinting as he looks out across the cove. For a few moments, Dean just watches him, confused, until the angel grins and points out at the water.

“_There_. I do believe we have a welcoming committee.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to squint out at the sea, but contrary to Cas, all he can see are waves and water. “What are you talking about, babe?”

Cas just grins that wide, gummy grin and leads Dean by his hand across the beach. They stumble and slide across the pebbles until they’re standing right at the edge of the water, lapping against their shoes, and then Cas steps behind Dean and wraps an arm around his waist.

“There,” he murmurs, pointing his other hand out across the water. “Can you see them?”

Right now, all Dean can think about is the warm press of Cas’s chest against his back, and the fact that he hasn’t gotten quality alone time with his husband for too fucking long, but whatever he’s meant to be looking at, it’s clearly important to Cas, and so he tries to concentrate on the direction that Cas is pointing.

Slowly, as he squints against the sun, the dark water gives way to a few darker shapes, and as they start to drift closer, they resolve themselves into something that Dean has read about in books and seen in zoos, but never encountered in real life.

“_Otters_,” he breathes, an exhalation of awe and incredulity. “Cas, they’re otters! Holy shit!”

Castiel just chuckles and leans his chin on Dean’s shoulder, the two of them watching as the raft of otters drifts closer to the shore. A few of them detach and come swimming closer, twitching their whiskers curiously at Dean and paddling at the water with big paws and long tails. They’re beautiful, and inquisitive, and Dean had expected a romantic getaway with Cas but he could never have imagined that it would be quite this special.

“They say hello,” Cas murmurs, then presses a kiss to Dean’s neck. “Do you like them?”

Dean watches as one otter comes right up into the shallows, blinking up at them. It’s not as large as some of the bigger ones—a baby, perhaps—but it seems curious about them. He feels Cas smile against his skin.

“They’re beautiful,” Dean says, because what else _can _he say? Not many people can claim to have stood at the edge of the ocean on an Alaskan beach and watched a raft of wild sea otters come to within a few feet of them. “You chose perfectly, Cas. This is amazing.”

They sit on the beach and watch the otters until the sun begins to set and dusk creeps in across the cove, and then Dean takes Cas’s hand and leads him back up the beach towards the cottage.

They don’t have to go back to the bunker until tomorrow, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	27. Rain smut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel can't hold back after a hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday gift for [Toby](http://tobythewise.tumblr.com)! <3
> 
> Warning for: NSFW

It’s raining.

Their clothes are plastered to their skin, but still, they stay with the bonfire, even as it sputters in the deluge of the storm. The vamps are gone, and the rain washes the blood from Dean’s skin as he and Cas stand, side by side, until the flames finally lose out and all that remains is a pile of soaked ashes and charred timber.

They don’t run back to the car—there’s no point now, the rain having soaked through to their skin. They just walk, the backs of their hands brushing with every step, water running in rivulets down their faces.

Something thrums under Dean’s skin, as they stand beneath the storm and let the heavens open up above them, as he walks beside the man he has known as an angel, an enemy, a friend, a human, a lover. It hooks behind his sternum, trembles in his fingertips, sends his heart careening against his ribcage.

They reach the Impala, and Dean grips the sodden lapel of Cas’s trenchcoat, pressing him against the driver’s side door. Cas watches Dean with steel-storm eyes until Dean curls the fingers of his other hand around the curve of his jaw and kisses him. This thing between them, this hummingbird feeling beneath Dean’s skin that has been present for so many years but something he can only _act_on now… it’s so new. So _intoxicating_.

Castiel gasps, a hitch of breath that Dean can feel against his lips and beneath the hand that presses against Cas’s chest. Around them, the rain beats down against the Impala’s roof, the sodden ground, Dean’s canvas jacket. Cas’s lips taste like blood and rain, and Dean presses closer, slides his tongue past the seam of Castiel’s lips and slots his thigh between Cas’s legs.

Cas isn’t fully hard yet, but he’s getting there, and he curls his fingers into the front of Dean’s jacket and holds him close. Standing here in the rain, they kiss like they’re drowning, riding the adrenaline of the hunt and the electricity in the air as the storm front rolls through.

Dean shifts his grip, slides his hand over soaked fabric and down Cas’s chest, pulling his shirt out where it’s tucked into his pants and splaying his fingers over the hot skin beneath.

Cas makes a sound against Dean’s lips, pulls him closer, grinds against Dean where their hips are pressed close. He’s hard.

“Can I?” Dean murmurs against rain-wet skin, barely audible over the drumming of water onto the roof of the Impala and the whistle of the wind. His fingers drift down, teasing against the waistband of Cas’s slacks.

Electricity sparks beneath Dean’s skin as Cas leans back against the car and nods, his chest heaving breathlessly. They both watch, enraptured, as Dean’s fingers fumble with the belt buckle, the button, the zipper. He manages to get it all undone, but Cas has grown impatient.

He reaches for the fly of Dean’s jeans at the same time that Dean manages to slide his hand beneath soaked trousers and wet boxers, curling calloused fingers around him where he’s hot and hard. He makes a soft, punched-out noise, his aim faltering with the distraction, and Dean captures the sound with a kiss.

_His _angel. _Their _first. This, in the rain, after a hunt, the two of them all needy desperation and fumbling hands where they stand pressed up against the Impala… this is _them_.

Cas fumbles at Dean’s fly even as Dean starts to stroke—gentle and teasing for now, enough to get him worked up but not too distracted.

And then Cas manages to get Dean’s jeans undone and shoved down several inches, and it’s Dean’s turn for his concentration to stutter as Cas grips his cock. He presses his forehead against Cas’s and holds him close.

Neither of their movements are very refined, but this isn’t about refinement. This is about need, and desperation, so raw that they have no hope of fighting it. Dean will never be able to say no to his angel. Never be able to resist.

They gasp their pleasure against each other’s lips, until it’s still not enough, until Dean takes them both into his hand. Cas wraps his fingers loosely around Dean’s wrist, not enough to help but in an attempt to ground himself with Dean’s touch, and cries out his pleasure into the roiling storm and the rain.

He falls over the edge first, and Dean is there to catch him, following him over not long after with a gasp and his forehead pressed against Cas’s.

They stand together in the aftermath, beneath the skies and in the rain, letting it wash over them. Dean grins, slow and sated and happy, and kisses his angel once more, holding onto him as though he’ll never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	28. Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean jousts against his rival and husband.

The scarlet standard of the knight of Winchester ripples in the breeze above Dean’s mounting yard, as he performs the final checks on his gear and hefts the weight of his lance one last time.

This tournament has been the talk of the kingdom for weeks, but very few people doubted that the final contest would be between anyone but the knights of Eden and Winchester. Dean has been training for months for this event, and he’ll be damned if he lets himself lose today. The sun is shining overhead, the ground is firm, and the crowd is in his favour. _Surely _he’ll be able to carry away the victory and every single one of the bragging rights that goes with it.

Sam holds his horse as Dean mounts up, settling himself firmly in his saddle. Further down the field, he can see the knight of Eden doing the same, his blue standard standing tall at his mounting area. The sunlight glints off the metal of his armor, and Dean allows himself a moment to watch, the corner of his mouth curving up in a smile. _Gods_, he’s so looking forward to this.

Dean accepts his lance from Sam, ensures that it’s nestled securely beneath his arm, then flips down his visor and nudges Impala in the direction of the tilt. The sound of the crowd picks up as both Dean and the knight of Eden begin to move, until they’re shouting their support to the two armor-clad knights waiting at either end of the tilt.

Everything quiets as the king stands in the royal box, but Dean pays little attention to his speech—it’s something that he’s heard many times before, after all, and he’d much rather focus on the competition and the opponent he’s about to face.

The call comes, and they take their positions at either end of the tilt. Impala dances in excitement, held by Dean’s reins and the weight of his seat, whereas the other knight’s grey horse stands perfectly still. They wait, lances at the ready…

And then they charge.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. Dean has done this hundreds of times, and yet the adrenaline still carries him through. He barely thinks about his actions, just focuses on the centre of the knight’s shield as they gallop towards each other.

He feels his lance hit, fights to keep himself in the saddle as they exchange blows, and then he’s riding out the other side, still seated.

When he reaches the end of the tilt and turns to look back, the other knight is picking himself up out of the dirt.

They look at each other for a moment, and the knight of Eden nods—an acknowledgement of the point scored, with an edge of challenge and determination—and then remounts.

The second time through, Dean manages to stay in his saddle once again, but the other knight’s lance shatters into pieces when it hits Dean’s shield. The crowd cheers wildly as the knight of Eden canters back to his end. They’re even.

And so it all comes down to this final tilt.

Dean takes his place, lance gripped firmly, Impala steady between his legs. He just has to stay in his saddle—few people are lucky enough to shatter their lance twice in a row. All it will take is one good blow to his opponent’s shield to unhorse him, and then Dean will get his victory.

They stare each other down along the tilt, and then the call comes, and they’re _off_.

Impala’s hooves dig into the dirt.

A bead of sweat rolls down Dean’s forehead inside his helmet.

The tip of his lance wavers, then steadies, his eyes fixed on the oncoming shield.

They strike each other at the same time, Dean’s lance biting into metal and finding its target. The other knight’s lance hits him square on target, though, and before he has time to recover from the blow—

He hits the ground.

_Son of a bitch_.

Dean lies there as the crowd cheers and catches his breath, having had the wind knocked out of him. His ego is more bruised than his body, and he takes a moment to compose himself before he flips his visor up. At least it feels good to get some air on his face.

The knight of Eden appears in his field of vision, and Dean gives him a wry smile as he accepts the offered hand and lets his opponent pull him to his feet. “Well done, Cas,” he says, reaching up to pull his helmet all the way off.

The knight of Eden mimics the gesture, and Dean’s heart double-beats at the sight of those bright blue eyes and a wide, beaming smile. He’s sweaty and pink-cheeked and gross, but still so undeniably gorgeous.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to unhorse you on that last pass,” Cas says with a chuckle. “It was just lucky. You’ll have to work on breaking your lances, though.” He winks, and his tone is light, teasing—he’s being a lot more gracious about his win than Dean would have been, that’s for sure.

They turn to face the crowd, still cheering wildly, and bow to the royal box. No matter how often he and Cas compete, and how often they compete against _each other_, the thrill of it never wears off. They keep track of their victories at home, too, and this one will be another notch on Cas’s list.

Like he said, though: Dean will get him next time.

For now, he lets Cas enjoy his victory, watching the crowd applaud him with a proud smile. When Cas turns to face him, still beaming, Dean gives him a small, respectful bow, as is befitting of the contest’s loser… then steps up close, cups Cas’s face in his hands, and kisses him soundly.

There have to be some benefits to jousting against his husband, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	29. Camping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean slowly warms up to the idea of camping.

Dean has never been very sold on the idea of camping. Sam is all for it, of course, the geek that he is. He scopes out all the best sites, scours the internet to figure out what equipment they need, and even suggests that they rent out a 4WD to “cope with the tracks, Dean, it can get muddy up there.” The _nerve_.

Cas isn’t much help either. He’s always been fond of nature, having helped create it and all, and doesn’t really understand Dean’s issues. But why the hell would they want to sleep in a tent and cook over a fire and have to put up with all the creepy crawlies out there when they could just… stay home?  
  
But it was never a battle he was going to win, so he resigns himself to the weekend away that the others are so excited for. They _do _take the Impala, though—there’s no way that Dean is going to drive some rented, pimped-out Jeep when he could have his baby.

And so they make their way to the nearest national park, and Sam finds the camping spot he’s so carefully picked out, and they start to set up.

Sam has his own tent, since he vehemently refuses to share one with Dean and Castiel, which suits Dean just fine. It does mean, however, that Sam _also _refuses to help them set up their tent.

Dean has never really understood how couples can almost come to blows over Ikea furniture, but after trying to figure out how to put up the tent with Cas…

Yeah, he kinda gets it now.

Once their campsite has been set up (and no one’s had anything thrown at them or been banished to another continent) Dean is in dire need of some of the relaxation time he was _promised _he’d get on this vacation. A couple of the nearby signs had mentioned a river just down the hill, and so that’s where he goes now, leaving Cas and Sam to finish unpacking the car. If he stays any longer, he might strangle one or both of them, which they’re well aware of and means they’re more than happy to let him go.

He grumbles to himself as he walks—cursing stupid brothers and persuasive boyfriends and whichever motherfucker decided that tents had to be so damn complicated to set up. They’re only here for two nights, and then Dean will get to return to the land of real beds and proper goddamn electricity, thank fuck.

The sound of rushing water gets louder the further down the hill he gets, until the path opens out past the treeline and he comes to a stop on the edge of the river.

It’s actually surprisingly beautiful. The water is clear and fast-moving, the banks grassy, the air warm and quiet. Most importantly, though, there’s no one else around. _Perfect_.

Dean takes a moment to absorb the atmosphere and the quiet—and the lack of bickering. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten to appreciate nature like this, and it’s… honestly kinda nice.

Once he’s decided that this is where he’s going to hang out for a while, Dean finds a nice spot on the riverbank to lie down on and pillows his flannel under his head. For a little while, he just lies there and soaks up the sun, until he slowly, slowly, drifts off into sleep.

When he wakes, the sun is considerably lower in the sky, and Cas is sitting on the grass next to him. He’s wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts, and has his face turned towards the setting sun, but even though Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t give any sign of being awake—

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

Dean snorts and reaches over to poke Cas in the ribs, grinning as Cas scoots away and shoots him a teasing glare. “Still like watching me sleep, huh? I guess some things never change.”

Cas catches Dean’s hand and intertwines their fingers, moving back to Dean’s side once he’s sure that Dean isn’t going to retaliate further for his comment. “I do like watching you sleep,” he admits, his thumb skating over Dean’s knuckles as he looks back out over the dusk-washed river. “You look peaceful.” He pauses for a second, then asks, “Do you like it out here?”

Dean inhales, breathing in the clean forest air, then exhales again. He’d had his doubts, and he’s still not sure about a lot of this whole camping bullshit, (and he’ll _certainly _never admit this to Sam), but…

“Yeah,” he says, smiling up at Cas. “Yeah, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	30. Informant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Castiel meets up with his criminal informant.

Castiel pulls the collar of his coat up against the cold and the damp, and leans back against the brick wall of the alleyway.

Watching.

Waiting.

It’s late, and he very much wishes he could be in bed right now, instead of out on the streets, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. It’s not like meetings like this can happen at any local café or diner, after all. All it takes to slip up is one wrong move, one rookie mistake.

“Evening, Detective.”

It’s only years and years of practice and self-discipline that keep Castiel from jumping out of his skin as a voice emerges from the shadows to his left. Instead, he shifts his stance—the only sign that he’d been caught off-guard—and straightens up from where he’s been hunched against the brick.

“Good evening. What have you got for me?”

The man steps out of the shadows, his own leather jacket turned up against the city’s cold and the fine drizzle that is so often hanging in the air. His green eyes shine even in the low light of the alleyway, as does his smile—sharp, teasing.

Guarded.

“What, no foreplay?” he asks, tilting his head. “No ‘hey, how are you?’ Not gonna ask how my day was? How many people I had to avoid to get out here tonight?”

“_Dean_.”

Immediately, Dean is in his space, one finger held up dangerously close to Castiel’s lips as he casts his gaze around. There’s no one else here, but paranoia rides heavy on the shoulders of these people. “Don’t, Cas,” he warns, his voice low and dangerous.

Dean’s finger hovers in front of Castiel’s lips, tantalizingly close but not as tempting as the proximity of Dean’s lips. Castiel has imagined how he would kiss, alone at night in his bed, muffling his gasps against his hand. How this man would take him apart, what his lips would taste like, what those calloused hands would feel like on his skin.

The finger is dangerous, but his lips are even more so. Castiel focuses on the finger until Dean decides that they’re safe, that no one overheard Cas use his name.

Once he does, he drops his hand, but doesn’t move away. This close, his eyes pierce into Castiel’s, and were it not so dark, he would surely be able to count every freckle spattered across Dean’s cheekbones.

_Fuck_.

“Let’s get this over with,” Dean mutters, and while the playfulness is gone, his intensity never wavers. He always looks at Castiel with that single-minded focus and _heat_, in a way that sends arousal crawling beneath Castiel’s skin in an itch he will never be able to scratch.

Castiel swallows. “Do you have any news?” he asks, quieter this time. The brick wall bites into his back.

He doesn’t trust himself to be any closer to Dean. Even this… it’s so dangerous.

Dean pauses, runs his tongue over his teeth. His hands are pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket now. “Yes,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “They’re going to move on Friday night. If they’re successful, Lucifer Morningstar is going to end up dead, Michael is going to get away with everything, and all the crimes they’ve ever committed are going to go unpunished. If you can get to the docks before it happens, though… your guys have got a chance at getting both of them.”

Castiel blows out a long breath, his eyes wide.

The Morningstar brothers and their respective people have been tearing the city apart for as long as anyone can remember. When Castiel was tasked with putting an end to the war, he’d imagined it to be impossible: a fool’s quest. But then he met Dean, and in exchange for immunity for himself and one Samuel Winchester, Dean has been his eyes on the inside ever since.

And now… it might all be coming to an end.

“That’s huge,” Castiel says, stunned. “I—thank you, Dean. I know you’re taking a big risk.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth pull up into a quick, tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The _I know _hangs in the air between them, but Dean doesn’t say it. Instead, he just says, “You owe me,” quiet and serious. His immunity is no joke, Castiel knows that.

He nods, and this time _he’s _the one to say, “I know.”

Dean watches him for a long moment, his gaze searching Castiel’s face. Cas isn’t sure what he finds there, but it must be good because the ghost of a genuine smile plays across Dean’s lips, there and gone again in a heartbeat. “Thanks, Cas.” He takes a step back, and Castiel watches his guard start to go up again before his very eyes. “I’ll see you around.”

He moves as if to leave, but a thought flashes across Castiel’s mind, quick and sharp and urgent.

“Dean—wait.” Castiel catches Dean’s wrist as he turns away, and sees him flinch as he fights the reflexive urge to lash out. When he turns back, their gazes lock, and Cas swallows. “Are you… are you going to be there? On Friday night?”

Dean blinks, as though he’s been caught off guard by the question. “I have to be,” he says, and Castiel’s breath stutters.

He thinks of this man, who he’s grown so attached to over the past few months with his sharp wit and slightly too-large leather jacket, and imagines him walking into this battle with certain death lying on either side of the path to salvation. His heart clenches.

“Be safe,” is all he can say—there’s so much more, but it’s not for right now. If he ever sees Dean again, if they both make it out the other side of this mess… maybe then.

From the raw, vulnerable look in Dean’s eyes, he knows it too.

“You too, Cas.”

And then he gently pulls his wrist out of Castiel’s grasp, turns away, and disappears into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	31. Blind Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean seeks the help of bookstore owner Castiel.

“Excuse me?”

Castiel holds up a finger and mutters a muffled _hold, please_as he finishes checking through his latest book order. He’s had a hectic day, and any customer should be able to see that from the bags under his eyes and the way his hair is surely sticking up every which way, but apparently this one is oblivious to his struggles. He takes the pen from between his teeth, checks off the receipt, then sets everything to one side on his counter and straightens up.

“Alright, how can I help—_oh_.”

The man standing in front of his counter is tall and handsome, an amused half-smile curling his lips and a pair of dark glasses perched on his nose. God, this is why Castiel needs to try not to get so focused on his work—so he’s not inadvertently rude to customers who just so happen to be _blind_. “I’m so sorry,” he starts, but the man chuckles and waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it, dude, you’re all good. I was told you’re the guy to come to if I’m looking for niche books. You wouldn’t happen to have anything in Braille, would you?”

Castiel pauses for a second to consider, taking a mental catalogue of everything he’s got in his store right now. “I’ve probably got a few books,” he muses, “but I don’t know if they’ll be what you’re interested in. If you’ve got any specific requests, I could always order them in for you?”

The man’s face lights up, and if Castiel had been captivated by his crooked little half-smile before, the brightness of his grin absolutely floors him. “You’d really do that?” the guy asks, and the joy in his voice matches the happiness written all over his expression. “That would be so fucking cool, you have no idea. Thank you so much…”

Cas looks down at his nametag, then back up at the man. “Castiel,” he prompts, and the guy laughs.

“Castiel, huh? Just the name I expected for an eclectic bookstore owner—and I mean that in the best way,” he rushes to add, and this time, it’s Castiel’s turn to chuckle.

“Trust me, I take no offence. I’m perfectly happy being an eclectic bookstore owner. And you are…?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester.” He sticks out his hand to shake, and Castiel takes it.

How does he like this guy so much already? “Nice to meet you, Dean Winchester,” he says, letting go of Dean’s hand and turning towards his computer. “Let’s find you some books, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	32. Death Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel meets Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [c-kaeru's](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com) gorgeous [death!Dean artwork](https://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/post/187900305021/dean-as-death-cas-as-the-gardian-of-heaven-sam-as)
> 
> Warning for: MCD

When Castiel wakes, everything is quiet.

He’s standing on the road, the asphalt cool under his bare feet. Above him, the stars twinkle, and the full moon washes everything in a silver light that lends an ethereal quality to Cas’s world.

He doesn’t quite remember how he got here. It’s all a little fuzzy, and he frowns as he tries to remember what he was doing before now—ten minutes, five minutes, even thirty seconds ago. His thoughts slip just out of his grasp, always dancing out of reach.

Someone runs past him.

They move slow, as though time is slightly off-kilter, and there’s a hazy quality to their movements. Castiel has to really focus on them for the waviness to stop. Where are they going? And why are they moving with such… urgency?

His gaze follows them, and he looks to where they’re heading, to the motorcycle that’s tipped on its side in the middle of the road, scrapes marring the paintwork. It seems familiar, and as he looks at it, he swears he can feel its vibrations, the smoothness of the leather seat, the wind whipping past him.

But whoever is running doesn’t stop at the motorcycle. They keep going past it, towards something that’s lying in the road—leather and fabric and deep red washed out by the silver moonlight, and—

_Oh_.

_Oh, god_.

Castiel takes a step back, gravel biting into the sole of his foot. He can _feel _it, but it’s muted somehow, just like everything else is, just like whoever ran past him didn’t acknowledge him because they couldn’t see him.

Because he’s _dead_.

He doesn’t want to look, but he can’t look away—all he can do is stare as the person kneels beside his body, phone pressed to their ear as they mouth frantic words that Castiel can’t hear. It’s… _surreal_.

“You doin’ okay?”

Castiel starts, looking away from the scene for the first time in… well, he can’t really tell any more. He’d assumed that he was alone here, cut off from the world in time and space and almost every aspect, but the voice… it had been talking to him.

And sure enough, standing by the side of the road and watching him in the moonlight, is a man.

The first thing that Castiel notices is that his feet are also bare. He’s dressed in dark pants and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gold jewelry decorating his fingers and his wrists. The fingers of his left hand are curled loosely around the shaft of a scythe slightly taller than he is, and he seems to lean against it, his body loose and languid and relaxed.

The first question on Castiel’s tongue had been, _Are you dead too?_, but, well. The scythe definitely answers that.

Tucked behind the man’s ear is a single white-gold lily, and a golden amulet hangs around his neck. He watches Castiel like he can see him, like he _understands _him, like they truly exist on the same plane.

“I’ve been better,” Castiel replies quietly—there’s a hint of sarcasm to his tone, because who the hell asks that kind of question to someone who’s just _died_, but his voice also shakes as he says it.

After all, it’s not every day that this kind of thing happens.

The man’s lips quirk up into a smile, and he shrugs one shoulder as if to say, _fair enough_. “What’s your name?” he asks, and although there’s a quietness and a calmness to his voice, it also rings with barely-hidden power.

“Castiel,” Cas tells him. “You?”

“Dean.” The man twists his wrist, and in a flash, the scythe disappears, replaced by a gold-glowing tattoo on his left forearm. He pushes his hands into his pockets, still watching Castiel with that calm, piercing gaze. Even from a few feet away, Castiel can’t tell if his eyes are green or gold.

“What, didn’t like being called ‘Death’?” Castiel asks—because of course his fallback is to make an ironic joke when faced with a deity he’d never thought existed. “Figured you’d change those last letters into a slightly more normal name?”

Death—_Dean_—snorts, and thank god he seems amused by Cas’s idiocy, because if he’s about to be taken to some kind of afterlife, he probably shouldn’t be pissing off the person in charge of his fate.

“It was a happy coincidence,” Dean says with a chuckle. “Never really thought about it until now. Of all the people I’ve collected in my time, you’re the first person to ever make that joke.”

Castiel can’t help the quick twist of his lips into a wry smile. “You mean not everyone reacts to their own demise and the concept of the afterlife like this? Shocking.”

Dean levels a finger at him, ring glinting a silvery gold in the moonlight. “I like you,” he says with a grin. “You’re coping with this surprisingly well.”

That sobers Castiel somewhat, and he looks back over his shoulder to where his body is now shielded from view by a police car, the silver landscape broken up by flashing red and blue. “As well as one can when faced with something like this,” he says quietly. When he looks back at Dean, his expression has sobered.

“I know, Cas,” he says. “Any questions you have, anything you want to talk about, just say. That’s what I’m here for, after all.”

Castiel thinks for a moment. All his emotions feel… distant, at the moment, as though he’s feeling them through a layer of glass, but his own grief still aches deep in his chest. “Is my family going to be okay?” he asks, his words quiet and voice cracking on the last syllable.

Dean nods, the corners of his mouth pulled down in sympathy. He must be used to questions like this. “It’s always hard to lose a loved one, Cas,” he says gently. “But time heals all wounds. Your brother will struggle, but ultimately, yes, they’ll all be okay.”

Cas closes his eyes for a second against the sadness that washes over him at the thought of his family. This isn’t how he’d wanted to leave them, but it’s not like he has much of a choice now. It’ll take time, but they’ll be okay.

And so will he.

“Alright,” he says, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. “I’m good. No more questions. Wherever you’re taking me, let’s go.”

Dean grins, teeth white in the moonlight. He seems to almost float across the ground as he crosses the few strides between them, stopping within arm’s reach of Castiel. He holds his left hand out, his scythe glinting against tanned, freckled skin. An offering. An invitation.

Castiel doesn’t look back at his body.

Instead, he holds Dean’s gaze, takes his hand, and steps with him into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	33. Youtube and first dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Youtuber Castiel asks out his roommate, Dean, on camera.

The video begins in their living room; Castiel adjusts the framing of the camera, tongue peeking out between his teeth in concentration, then sits down in front of it and smiles at the lens. He’s nervous, tension in the line of his shoulders and the way he holds himself, but he also radiates with excitement and hope. His eyes shine.

“Hey guys,” Castiel begins, his gaze on the lens of the camera. “I’m guessing you already know what this is going to be about from the title of the video. And… well, if you’re actually seeing this, it means I didn’t get shot down in a fiery inferno and spend the rest of the weekend eating ice cream in my room, wallowing in self-pity.”

He takes a deep breath, then exhales it slowly.

“A lot of you have been watching my channel for a long time, and you’ve known Dean from the very beginning. You’ve been telling me to ask him out, that we’re clearly so into each other, for the longest time. And for a while, I didn’t think you were right. Dean was just a friend, he didn’t like me like that and we were happy just being friends and roommates.”

He runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head with a chuckle. “Well, turns out you guys were right. I do like Dean—a _lot_—and… today I’m going to ask him out. So wish me luck. But again, if you’re seeing this, I guess I don’t need it.”

Castiel gives the camera a little wave, and then the scene cuts: it’s the same framing of their living room, the camera perched on a bookshelf or somewhere similar to get the whole room into the shot, but the light is different. The shadows are longer, the room filled with the golden glow of a just-beginning sunset.

There’s the sound of a door opening, and Castiel looks up from his book where he’s been sitting on the couch. His face lights up as he looks at something off camera, and moments later, Dean enters the frame.

“How was work?” Castiel asks, tucking his feet up to make room for Dean on the couch, who flops onto it dramatically.

“Fuckin’ sucked,” he declares, pulling his legs up onto the couch and getting comfortable. “People can really be the worst, Cas, honestly. Once I graduate and I can just sit in a room full of machines all day every day, I’ll be living the life.”

Castiel raises one eyebrow, the curve of a smile playing at the edge of his lips, and Dean laughs, poking him in the side with his foot.

“Okay, not you. You know you don’t count as regular people, Cas, you’re one of the good ones.”

Even from the camera’s hidden position, that blush that colours Castiel’s cheeks is clearly visible. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, then clears his throat. “Dean, I—would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night?”

Dean doesn’t even pause, just shrugs one shoulder and nods. “Sure, Cas. What’re you feeling? Diner food? Pizza? Chinese? They just opened a new burger place down the street, we could go there.”

It’s clear that he hasn’t quite realized the weight behind the question. Castiel fidgets, catching his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment and steeling himself. “No, I—I was thinking we could go somewhere a little fancier. Like, to a nice restaurant or something.”

Dean grins. “What, like a date?” he asks, and Castiel swallows.

“Yes, Dean,” he says quietly. “Like a date.”

The exact moment where Dean realizes can be pinpointed on film: the joking expression disappears from his face, and he sits up straight, his eyes on Castiel. For a few seconds, all he can do is open and close his mouth in shock—and then, slowly, a smile curls his lips, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “You askin’ me out, Cas? On a proper date? Gonna wine and dine me?”

Castiel exhales the breath he’d been holding on a laugh and smiles—Dean isn’t going to reject him. “I thought I would, yes. It’s taken me long enough to realize that all our viewers who’ve been ‘shipping’ us,” he says, quirking his fingers in air quotes, “might have a point. I… I really like you, Dean.”

Dean’s expression softens, and he knocks his knee gently against Cas’s where their legs are entangled on the couch. “I really like you too, Cas,” he says, his grin bright and radiant. And then, with a laugh, as he looks around the room:

“You motherfucker, did you film this?”

And the video cuts to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	34. College separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel go to different colleges and try to make their long-distance friendship work.

When the college acceptance letters start to arrive, Dean and Castiel both find themselves inundated with offers. They’d always said they’d try to stay together, to choose schools that are close to each other, if not the same.

But when Dean gets accepted to MIT, and Cas gets into Princeton… they can’t sacrifice their future just so they can spend their college years together. For such a close pair of childhood friends, it sucks, but it’s what they have to do.

Besides, at least they have Skype and they can message each other, and it’s only a five hour drive between their two colleges. It’s totally doable, and gives Dean an excuse to take his baby out for a spin on weekends and holidays when she’d be otherwise neglected.

And so they go their respective ways, Castiel over to New Jersey and Dean up in Massachusetts, and try to settle in.

They message each other every day, of course, and talk face to face if they have time. It’s… weird, being without Cas like this. Dean has seen him almost every day since elementary school, and now that he can only talk to him through a computer screen, it feels all kinds of fucked up. He’s got his future to think about, though, and he couldn’t possibly have sacrificed his admission to MIT, and so he sucks it up.

Dean cherishes the time he gets to spend with Cas, online or not. Every message, every minute they spend talking over Skype, every stolen hour he gets with Cas in his dorm room, playing video games or watching movies or just _talking_, until Dean has to get back in his car and drive back to his own campus in time for classes. It’s all precious to him, and he tries to stay focused on his academic results even as he juggles the friendship with Cas that he would never ever sacrifice, not for anything.

But the longer he spends away from Cas, no matter how much they keep in touch online… it starts to feel like there’s a hole in his chest. Like there’s a piece of him missing, a piece that only ever feels filled whenever he’s in that tiny dorm room with Cas in Princeton.

Dean tries to ignore it. There’s nothing he can do about the situation but grin and bear it and try to pretend nothing is wrong, after all.

So he distracts himself. Buries himself in his study, or goes out partying with the friends he’s made at MIT when Cas isn’t available to talk. He flirts with people, makes out with a few that really catch his eye, but nothing feels _right_. No one sparks any proper attraction in him, or holds his focus for more than a short time, and he doesn’t know _why_.

Until one evening, when he’s feeling particularly down and has holed himself up in his dorm room with a paper that’s due on Monday. His feelings don’t make _sense_, and he’s sick of trying to figure out exactly why he feels so flat, when he’s putting as much of himself as he can into trying to find happiness.

His phone buzzes beside him, and he almost ignores it. It’s only the possibility of it being Cas that pushes him to unlock it and check who’s messaging him—and he’s glad that he didn’t ignore it when he reads the message.

_I miss you. Are you free to Skype tonight?_

A choked-out sob bubbles up from Dean’s chest, and he smiles through the tears that are suddenly clouding his vision. Fuck, he misses Cas so much that it _hurts_, like a physical wound to his chest. He’d give anything to be with Cas right now—to hear his voice, touch him, _hug _him.

And that’s when he realizes something he should have realized a long time ago, something that hits him like a freight train but that suddenly sends everything into crystal-sharp focus.

He’s in love with Cas.

All the wondering and the questioning he’s been doing, all the places he’s been looking for answers… he’d never expected it to be _this_. But it makes sense, and it’s been right in front of him this whole time.

Dean stares at the text blankly as his world reorients itself, and in that moment, he makes a decision. His fingers shake as he types out his reply.

_I’m gonna come down and see you. There’s something I need to tell you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	35. Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean enters the afterlife and meets Castiel, the judge of souls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: MCD

Dean has been running for so long. He’s given his all, fought tooth and nail for his own survival, but even the best hunters are simply mortal.

He doesn’t remember how it happened, but he knows that he died alone—he hadn’t spoken to John in months, and Sam…

He should’ve gotten back in contact with Sam when he had the chance. At least his little brother will be happy over in Stanford.

And now Dean is here.

Wherever _here _is.

He stands in a dark room, the floor smooth and warm under his bare feet. It’s barely light enough that he can see vague shapes in the reddish darkness, shadows that twist like sentient beings. If they’re here to hurt him, he doesn’t care. He feels _heavy_, as though his body and his soul are immeasurably weighted.

Whatever is coming for him, he just wants it over with.

Dean doesn’t know how long he stands in the darkness, just waiting. Seconds, minutes, hours… it’s timeless, and it doesn’t matter.

The voice comes first, before anything else.

“Dean Winchester,” it says, deep and gravelly and clear, reverberating through Dean’s bones. “I have been waiting to meet you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, half-turning his head as though he can pick out the speaker in the semi-darkness. “Meet _me_? Well, I hate to disappoint. I’m sure this is going to be a letdown for you, whoever you are.”

The voice hums, the sound like a physical touch as it caresses Dean’s skin. “I believe that is for me to judge,” it says. “That is, after all, my purpose. And I have heard much about you.”

The shadows roll back slightly, the room brightening just enough for Dean to see the space in front of him, and a man steps out of the darkness.

He’s dressed in clothes that seem to shift with the angle Dean looks at them, shimmering from black to white and every shade in between. Silver sigils and marks curl across his skin, and his eyes glow faintly blue as he regards Dean. He’s handsome, and _radiates _power, and Dean can’t help but take a half-step back as the man—God? _Being?_—stops in front of him.

“Who are you?” he asks warily.

The man smiles, as though amused by the question. “Many people call me by many different names,” he says. “I am Anubis. I am Minos. I am Yama. But you… you may call me Castiel, for that is my true name, and I desire to hear it from your tongue.”

“Castiel,” Dean repeats, trying the word out. It suits this man, and the power Dean can feel tightly leashed beneath the form he has taken. “Alright, guess I’d better rephrase my question. _What _are you?”

_That _earns him a chuckle.

“What I am is beyond your comprehension, but the true answer you seek is this: my purpose is to judge the souls that have passed on.” He twists his fingers, and a silver sphere appears in the palm of his hand. In a single roll of his wrist, the sphere rests on the back of Castiel’s fingers, which he curls one by one until the silver sphere balances perfectly on the middle knuckle of his index finger.

They both watch it for a few long moments, until Castiel flicks his wrist again, and it disappears.

“So you’re here to judge me,” Dean whispers, thinking of his fate hanging precariously in the balance, dependent on the will of this being.

Castiel inclines his head solemnly. “I weigh your victories against your sins, and decide your fate should I find you wanting. But you are a special case, and you have been for a very long time. And so, Dean Winchester, before I decide your judgement… what is it that you feel you deserve?” 

It’s not a question that Dean is expecting, and it blindsides him.

He’s tried so hard to save so many people, but he’s also done so many bad things. He’s run, and he’s failed, and he’s disappointed, and in all honesty, he probably doesn’t deserve to be saved.

If there is a Hell, that may well be where he belongs. But fuck, all the monsters he’s fought, all the lives he’s saved… surely that has to count for something. But where is the balance? At what point does his bad outweigh his good? His soul aches with the weight of the question, his chest tightening until he can hardly breathe.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, choking on the words as they leave his tongue. He curls his fingers into fists until his nails bite into the skin of his palms. It doesn’t help. “I—I don’t know what I deserve.”

Castiel’s expression softens, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I thought that might be the case,” he murmurs. He holds out his hand in the space between them, the silver ball sitting once again in his palm.

“You cannot be judged,” he says, “for you have much left to prove—to yourself, to the world, and to the worlds beyond yours. That is why you are special, Dean Winchester. And that is why I have an offer for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	36. Djinn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel rescues Dean from a djinn.

It takes Castiel just over a day to find the lair of the djinn.

Every hour is an hour too many, but as he pulls up outside the old abandoned warehouse by the quarry with a squeal of tires, he knows this has to be the one. All the signs point to this place, and he feels it in his chest, like a tugging behind his sternum.

Dean is in there.

Despite every instinct screaming at him to bust in there and get to his husband as quickly as possible, Castiel knows that he has to be careful about this. He can’t rescue Dean if he also ends up captured by the djinn, after all, and so he forces himself to stay calm.

The sun is just starting to set, the rust-gold light casting long shadows across the landscape, and these are what Castiel sticks to as he makes his way up to the edge of the warehouse. There’s a door on the side wall—it’d be idiotic to try and bust through the front—so that’s what he makes his way over to. It’s padlocked, but the metal has clearly seen better days, and it only takes a couple of hard hits from the handle of Castiel’s knife to break through it.

The air inside smells of mildew and disuse, and Castiel wrinkles his nose as he quietly pushes the door open. The ground inside is littered with dirt and debris, and all the light disappears as the door closes behind him. Castiel turns on his flashlight, tightens his grip on the handle of his knife, and presses forward into the heart of the building.

It doesn’t take him long to find the lair itself, nestled right in the heart of the building. Castiel glimpses the faintest trace of light at the end of one of the corridors and follows it as it gets stronger and brighter, until he peeks around the corner of the corridor to find that it opens out into a large room, lit by a handful of dusty lightbulbs strung from the ceiling.

There’s a lot of debris and junk littering the room, but none of that is what gets Castiel’s attention.

No, what gets Castiel’s attention is the sight of Dean in the middle of the room, his hands tied together above his head, completely unconscious.

Castiel’s heart thuds against his ribcage in fear, and he squints in the dimness of the room, looking for a twitch, a blink, any sign of life—

The shallow rise and fall of his chest. A breath. He’s still alive, but he might not have much time.

Luckily, Castiel has been taught how to hunt by the best.

“Where are you, you blue son of a bitch?” he shouts as he steps into the room, shoving his flashlight back into his pocket and spinning the knife in his grip. “If you want me, you’re going to have to come and get me.”

He doesn’t have time to dance around the djinn, or go looking for it. He has to kill it, and only then can he go to Dean. Aware, and having claimed the empty space in the middle of the room, he has the high ground.

This djinn is quiet and quick on its feet, though: Castiel only hears a single footfall as warning and spins right as it lunges at him.

It’s a quick fight.

A series of dodges and missed blows, feet scraping for purchase on the debris-littered concrete, steel flashing in the dim light and glowing blue eyes far too close for comfort. The djinn is strong, but Castiel is stronger.

He sinks his silver knife between its ribs, and is over by Dean’s side before it even hits the ground.

“Dean,” he says, frantic as he pulls at the knots securing Dean’s hands above his head. “Dean, can you hear me?”

The ropes give way all at once, and Castiel scrambles to catch his husband, sinking to the ground with Dean in his arms. He presses his hand against Dean’s chest and feels his heart beat, weakly, beneath his fingers. “Love, I’m here. I’ve got you, Dean, please, open your eyes.”

The next few seconds feel like some of the longest in all of Castiel’s existence, but finally, _finally_… Dean’s lashes flutter, and his eyes open just a little—as though even that much movement is costing him so much energy.

“Cas,” he says, his voice barely a rasp. “What—“

“You were captured,” Castiel tells him. “It’s dead now. I—I’m just glad I found you in time.”

~

He gets Dean out of the warehouse and secured in the passenger seat of the Impala, much to Dean’s resentment. If he can barely keep his eyes open, though, there’s no way he’s driving a car, and so Castiel puts up with his grumbling because he came scarily close to losing Dean today.

It’s only once they’re halfway back to the motel, one of Dean’s cassettes playing quietly over the stereo, that Castiel asks, “What did you dream about?” He’s not sure he wants to know, but part of him is morbidly curious to know what Dean’s life might look like if his greatest wish were granted.

But Dean just shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant. “Didn’t really dream about anything,” he says, looking out the window at the trees that pass by in the wash of the Impala’s headlights. “It was just… black, mostly.”

Castiel frowns. “But… djinn dreams are supposed to show you your greatest wish, right? Why was it just black?”

Dean smiles, slow and soft, and turns to watch Castiel in the dimness of the dashboard lights. It’s a knowing smile, affectionate and fond and full of so many other emotions that Castiel couldn’t put a name to but feels resonating in his heart.

“I guess the djinn just didn’t know what story to make up,” Dean says, his voice soft, “…because I’ve already got everything I could ever ask for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	37. Mixtape angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel confronts Dean about the meaning behind the mixtape.

_“It’s a gift. You keep those.”_

Dean sits at the dining table, a glass of whiskey in front of him and the bottle not far away.

Why had he said that? It would have been so easy to just take the mixtape back, now that Cas has listened to all the songs Dean had wanted him to listen to. But he’d insisted that Cas keep it, like it was something special, like it has meaning that it doesn’t.

(It does.)

He knocks the rest of the whiskey back and pours himself another glass, restless frustration burning beneath his skin. He’s already too many shots past driving, though, so there’s no chance of going anywhere, no chance of escaping the thoughts that circle round and round in his head.

“Dean?”

Dean’s head snaps up. His movement knocks the whiskey glass, amber liquid spilling up the side and sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Fuck, how much has he had to drink?

Castiel steps closer to the table. There’s something in his hands, cradled delicately, and as he gets closer, Dean realizes what it is.

That damn fucking mixtape.

“What, Cas?” he bites out, far too harshly but at this point, he’s too drunk to care. There’s fire burning through his veins, and he’s _fucking angry_. Angry at Cas, angry at the world, angry at _himself_.

Cas takes a half-step back, his blue eyes wide, a tiny frown of concern creasing his brow. “I—is this a bad time?”

“Just spit it out,” Dean growls, staring him down across the distance between them. He feels agitated, that same agitation that he knows is best released by fighting or fucking, and—well.

Castiel shuffles his feet, then takes a deep breath. “I was researching mixtapes, and the Google told me that… some people show their affection through them. Many films have used them with romantic connotations, and I—I suppose I was just wondering…” He looks down at the mixtape, then meets Dean’s gaze again, hesitant and vulnerable. “Why did you tell me to keep these?”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again.

He doesn’t even know where to start processing all of this—all he can hear in his head is the pounding rhythm of:

_Cas knows. Cas knows. Cas knows._

But there’s nothing _to _know. Dean Winchester is a ladies’ man, and if he was making a mixtape for a girl he was interested in then sure, it might be romantic, but this?

It’s not like that. He’s not…

He finishes his glass of whiskey, slams it back down on the wood with more force than he’d intended to, and scrapes his chair back from the table. The agitation in him, the fire, it doesn’t have anywhere to go. Faced with a question like that—one that could tip the balance, if he’d just _admit_…

Dean Winchester does what Dean Winchester does best, and closes off.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snarls, incredulous. “You came here to ask me why I told you to keep that because, what? You think I wanna get in your pants? Think I’ve got some kind of dumb fucking schoolgirl crush? I don’t know what you angels got up to in Heaven, but I’m _straight_, Cas. I’m not interested in you, or—or any of that shit.”

The look on Cas’s face.

_Fuck_, it hurts. But he can’t back down now. Can’t admit, not even to himself.

“But—“ Cas starts, and Dean slams his fist on the table before he can continue.

“_Stop_, Cas!” he shouts, and his voice cracks but he ignores it, pushes on. “I don’t—I’m not in love with you, or whatever the fuck you think is going on here. That shit there?” He points at the mixtape, and Castiel looks down at it too, as though he’d forgotten he was holding it. “It’s not a love letter. It’s simply because your taste in music fucking sucks, and I’m trying to _educate _you. That’s _all_. Are you done with this bullshit now?”

Castiel doesn’t look up.

He’s just as closed off as Dean, now, but in an entirely different way, his shoulders tense and gaze fixed on the mixtape. His knuckles turn white with how hard he’s gripping it, as though he’s barely keeping himself together, and Dean aches.

The silence between them stretches out, still ringing with Dean’s angry, defensive words, and then—

_Snap_.

Castiel grips each half of the mixtape in his hands, holding it hard enough to break skin, then carefully places the two pieces onto the table. The sound of plastic on wood is deafeningly loud, second only to the sound of Dean’s own blood rushing in his ears.

“I understand,” Castiel says quietly, and he only meets Dean’s gaze for a second, but it’s so full of raw anguish and grief that Dean takes a step back, as though Castiel’s pain is a physical force.

What has he done?

By the time he can process that look, or try and come up with any sort of response, apology, _anything_—

Cas is already gone.

And Dean is left alone with his whiskey, and with the broken remains of the best chance he’s ever had of admitting how he feels about Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	38. S1 bar hookup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel meets Dean Winchester at a bar.

Castiel meets him in a bar in downtown Lebanon, on a night that is warm and thick with possibility.

He is all grass-green eyes and curving smiles, sharp and relaxed all at once where he leans against the bar and converses easily with the bartender. The light enhances the spatter of his freckles, glows through the beer on the bar in front of him. He has one hand in the pocket of his jeans, effortlessly battered but clean, and his flannel hugs the planes of his body in a way that has more than half of the bar watching him.

He’s _breathtaking_.

Castiel wants to introduce himself, but he doesn’t—which is why he’s so surprised when the stranger appears by his elbow at the bar, twenty minutes later and with two beers in hand. There’s that smile again; flirtatious, confident, but with something fragile and glass-brittle behind it.

“Hey there. Mind if I join you?”

Castiel says yes. Of course he does—there’s no way he could say anything else, not to this man who has already stolen the focus from his mind and the breath from his lungs.

The beautiful guy with the green eyes takes the barstool beside Castiel’s.

His name is Dean.

They talk for a little while. Dean is in town for business, just passing through. The way he talks about his job is as if it’s all he’s ever known, this integral, gritty part of him that he somehow manages to give shape to despite being pretty light on the details. In turn, Castiel tells him about the bookstore he manages, about his aspirations of one day becoming a writer.

Dean listens with an intensity that makes Castiel feel as though his every word is heard, his lips always curled up into that captivating half-smile, and when Castiel finishes, he puts a hand on his knee and suggests they get out of here.

They end up at Castiel’s apartment—Dean’s motel is too far and, he claims, too messy to have company. That’s fine by Cas, considering he’s never had such a handsome man in his bed before. They trade glances and easy words as they walk back to his place, Dean still radiating that easy, magnetic energy, and share their first kiss once Castiel has closed the door of his apartment behind them.

Once that bridge has been crossed, everything intensifies from there.

Castiel would be powerless to stop himself, even if he could. Dean is like a drug, truly captivating in his guarded way. The walls he has up only makes Castiel want him more—want to tear them down, to find out what is on the inside of the tough, flirtatious exterior. To find out what makes Dean tick.

They’re in Castiel’s bed, half-clothed and trading feverish, desperate kisses, when Dean stops him with a hand on his chest. “Before we do this, you should know,” he starts, his voice quiet and a little breathless, “that I’m not looking for long-term, Cas. I’m leaving town in a few days’ time, I—I can’t.” He watches Castiel with dark eyes, and that fragile _brokenness _about him is coming through stronger than it has all night.

“It’s okay,” Castiel says, even though it isn’t, even though he wants to drown in this man forever and never come up for air.

Dean smiles that bold-fragile smile, leans down to kiss Cas, and anything else either of them might have said dissipates on the warm night air that blows in through the windows.

After, they lie tangled in Castiel’s sheets, sweat-damp and sated. Dean is just as perfect as Castiel had imagined, and now he’s hooked in every way imaginable.

So when Dean sits up, moving as though he’s going to leave, Castiel’s heart stutters helplessly in his chest.

“Dean,” he says, sharper and more desperate than he’d intended it. He makes sure to soften his voice when he says, quietly, “You don’t have to go, you know.”

In the light that filters in from the street-lamps outside the bedroom window, Castiel can see the corner of Dean’s mouth curl up in a bitter smile. It’s the most honest, the most _raw_, that Castiel has seen him all night. He’s broken, yes, but there’s so much beauty in his brokenness that it takes Castiel’s breath away.

“Don’t I?” Dean laughs mirthlessly. “This work is all I’ve ever known. It’s what I grew up doing, it’s what my dad taught me. It’s fucked up, but it’s who I am. I don’t really have a choice.”

Castiel reaches out, puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Beneath his touch, Dean freezes—and then slowly, in the ambient streetlight and the warm quiet of the night, the tension begins to unwind from him. He exhales slowly, closes his eyes, and leans into Castiel’s touch.

“You always have a choice, Dean,” Castiel whispers. His thumb rubs gently across Dean’s skin. “_Always_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	39. Outlaw Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is captivated by outlaw Dean Winchester.

Dean Winchester rides into town when the sun is high and the wind is hot, blowing dust along the main street and bringing with it the sound of hooves on dry-packed earth.

The windows are shuttered, the doors locked—all except that of the saloon, because no one wants to test what happens if you deny a wanted outlaw his drink. The town watches, and waits with bated breath.

Even Castiel.

He’s heard stories about the young man, and the things he’s done. There’s no question that Dean Winchester is an outlaw, but no one dares to cross him or his brother. Too many people have ended up dead that now, the towns all along the Devil’s Backbone know to keep their mouths shut and stay away.

Dean Winchester is dangerous, and Castiel is captivated.

~

He doesn’t stop, that day. Just keeps riding through, calm as could be.

It’s a week later, when Castiel goes out on the border of dusk and night to check on his father’s horses, that he finds him.

Dean Winchester, slumped in the hay shed, sweat on his brow and a bloodied rag wrapped around his shoulder.

He doesn’t move, even as Castiel startles so badly that he stumbles back against the doorframe. Just stays there, head tipped back against the wooden wall, wary gaze fixed on Castiel.

This close, he looks… so young. All full lips and freckles and green eyes, dulled by pain and defeat.

The silence stretches out between them, even as the shadows outside lengthen.

Eventually, Dean grunts.

“Th’ fuck are you gonna do?” he rasps, and his words are bold, but his voice is quiet. “Kill me? Turn me in? Come on, already.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know. He’s spent so many hours thinking about Dean Winchester, about the outlaw whose name everyone knows, who is wanted for so many things and by so many people, and now that he’s _here_…

What _does _Castiel do?

He stands there for another minute, caught in the indecision of youth and inexperience, then slowly backs out of the hay shed and closes the door behind him.

~

When he returns, it’s close to midnight, and Dean is asleep.

He looks pale in the light of Cas’s lamp, his fingers curled loosely against the dirty cloth still pressed against his wound. Castiel sets the bucket and the bundle of supplies down on the ground by the door, then makes his way to Dean on careful, quiet feet, and reaches out to touch him gently on the good shoulder.

Dean reacts faster than Castiel would have thought possible, and suddenly he’s staring down the barrel of a pistol, the sound of the gun cocking incomparably loud in the silence of the night.

“It’s you,” Dean says after a few long moments. He doesn’t lower the gun. “Finally made your decision?”

Castiel swallows, eyeing the pistol, then points to the bucket of water and the cloth bundle. “I brought you some things. I can… clean that that wound, if you’d like. Otherwise I can go.”

Dean blinks at him, then looks over towards the door, at Castiel’s supplies.

Slowly, he lowers the pistol.

~

Beneath the cloth, Dean’s wound is red and angry. Castiel sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, and tries to be gentle as he touches the skin. Past a tiny flinch and a quick closing of his eyes, though, Dean doesn’t react.

When Castiel wordlessly hands him a half-bottle of whiskey and his belt, folded in half, then goes in to retrieve the bullet from the meat of his shoulder—that gets a little more reaction, but not by much. Dean Winchester has been hardened by his life on the run, and a fumbling young man whose only experience is stitching up wounded horses isn’t going to fuck him up much more.

After, once Dean’s shoulder is clean and dressed properly, they sit in silence and share the whiskey bottle between them.

They don’t speak, until Castiel gathers up his things once more and goes to leave.

“Thank you,” Dean says quietly, his words almost swallowed up by the night air.

Castiel gives him a quick smile and a “you’re welcome,” and then pulls the door closed after himself.

~

He continues to sneak out to see Dean—to bring him food, and clean water, to change his bandages and check on his wound. It’s looking so much better, and he’s getting stronger and healthier every day.

They still don’t talk much, but Dean has started to smile whenever Castiel arrives, and it feels like _something_.

~

Castiel can’t resist asking the question, as he checks on Dean’s shoulder while the outlaw cleans his gun—as though he’s making inventory, preparing to leave.

“How did you get into a life like this?”

Dean smile is tight and humourless. His fingers don’t stop moving over his gun, skilled and quick; a habit, an outlet, a distraction. The silence draws out between them, and it’s a little while before he speaks.

“My ma died early, and pa was… well, he went off the rails pretty quickly after that. And someone had to look after Sam ‘n make sure he didn’t starve, so… I did what I had to.”

Castiel pauses. Looks at him.

He’d been captivated by Dean even before, but now… he sees him in a new light.

Dean Winchester might be a good man.

Castiel would love him even if he weren’t.

~

The day arrives far too soon.

Castiel turns up to the hay shed to find Dean standing outside it, his bag packed and hat pulled down low over his eyes. He’s waiting. For Castiel? It would’ve have been so easy for him to just leave, disappear without a trace, but…

But he didn’t.

Castiel’s heart skips in his chest, for so many different reasons.

“You’re leaving?” he asks, as though that isn’t clear, but he’d been foolishly hoping that this day wouldn’t come. That Dean Winchester could continue to be his.

His little secret.

Dean looks up, meets his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. There’s emotion there—emotion that Castiel still can’t quite decipher, no matter how much time he’s spent with Dean while he’s been recovering, no matter how many conversations they’ve had and how long they’ve just sat together, reveling in the silence and the company.

“I have to,” Dean says simply. The corners of his mouth pull down, just slightly, but he still reaches for his bag and swings it up onto his shoulder. He’s all healed. There’s nothing keeping him here.

Castiel’s heart sinks into his stomach. “Am I ever going to see you again?” His voice is quiet, vulnerable.

The thought of never seeing Dean again, of never having _this_, whatever this is, with him… it aches in a way he’s never experienced before. Dean must see it on his face, because he hesitates, as though he’s at war with himself.

Castiel is expecting to be told, “maybe.”

He’s expecting to be told, “fuck no.”

He’s _not _expecting Dean to close the distance between them with a single step, pull off his hat with one hand and curl the other into the front of Castiel’s shirt, and kiss him.

“Come with me,” Dean whispers, and Castiel’s heart soars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	40. Fae creature sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean runs a sanctuary for creatures looking to be paired with a Fae.

Dean really loves his job.

Every day brings with it new challenges, new rewards, and new experiences—often in different and varying amounts. He gets to work with so many different creatures that end up in his sanctuary, looking to be placed with a Fae, and it’s his responsibility to match them with those that suit the very best.

Some days, though, are definitely harder than others, and today feels like one of them.

He’s just finished extinguishing the smoldering remains of what _used _to be one of the food dishes before the resident fire imp decided they didn’t like what was on the menu today, and there’s a young Fae poking at the beehive in the forest area with no parents to be seen.

“Please don’t,” he mutters under his breath as he watches, too tired at this point to micromanage unless something _really _bad happens, and sighs in relief as she loses interest and walk away.

For just a second, he gets to slump against his counter and look out at the sanctuary—at the places where old growth forest brushes against the tall ceiling, where the water in the pond transitions into solid ice, even the few fire pits along the edge of the room where at least one of the dragons is curled up and taking a nap. The sanctuary has to accommodate any creature who comes here to be placed, after all, and so Dean makes sure that it’s welcoming.

It’s always nice when he gets to take a step back and just _enjoy _the inviting, calming aura of the sanctuary.

And then the bell jingles as the door to the outside opens once more, and Dean barely stifles his groan.

“Hey, what can I help you with?” he asks on impulse, before he’s even properly laid eyes on this new customer, but as soon as he does… any further words die on his tongue.

This Fae is stunningly handsome—tall, with messy, dark hair and storm-blue eyes. Even without the blue amulet at his throat, Dean can automatically pick his Air-alignment. He _radiates _power.

And then the man smiles at him, warm and friendly, and Dean’s brain screeches to a halt even more because so many Air-aligned Fae that he’s met have been snooty and self-absorbed and for this stunning man to the _total opposite _of that…

Dean might be in trouble here.

“My name is Castiel, and I’m looking for a companion,” the man says, his voice a low rumble of thunder that reverberates through Dean’s bones. “I was told that you were the one to pay a visit to.”

“I sure am!” Dean says, far too enthusiastically—_take it down a fucking notch, Winchester_. _Don’t scare the dude off_. “My name’s Dean. Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”

Castiel’s lips quirk up further, and he shrugs one shoulder, casting his gaze away from Dean and across the great, cavernous room. “Not particularly. I believe I will know when I find the right creature. Do you have many companions of the Air here?”

Thank the _gods that _he’s dealing with someone who understands that finding a companion is most often the creature’s choice, and that a Fae can’t just pick whatever creature looks the most aesthetically pleasing or will give them a higher social standing. He’s liking Castiel more and more with every second.

As for companions of the Air… He doesn’t have as many of any other alignment as he does Earth, considering the green amulet around his neck and the fact that his own companion (a lanky, mossy-pawed tree spirit named _Talamh_) draws in a great number of his creatures, but he still manages to maintain a good balance across the other alignments.

“I have some, yeah. I’m sure we’ll be able to find one that’s a good fit, but I’ve gotta warn you…” He chuckles fondly, looking up towards the ceiling where most of the Air creatures reside. “You’ve gotta be a bit more patient if you want to get to meet them.”

When Dean looks back at Castiel, he finds that the Fae is watching _him_, a brightness in his eyes that makes Dean’s heart double-beat in his chest.

“That’s okay,” Castiel says, lips curled up in a smile. “I am more than capable of being patient. Perhaps, while we wait…you could show me around? I’ve heard so much about sanctuaries like these, and I would love to hear more about your work.”

Handsome? Friendly? Understands the bond between a Fae and their companion? Is interested in learning more about what Dean does, and _may_be flirting with him just a little bit?

Dean is _so _gone.

“Of course,” he says, giving Castiel a giddy smile of his own. “Let me give you a tour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	41. Incubus Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is rescued from Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: mature-rated content

When Dean returns from Hell, everything is different.

He doesn’t _want _it to be. It just is.

Sam looks at him differently, and Dean carries forty years of memories and knowledge on his young shoulders that he hadn’t had before. As much as he wants things to have stayed like they were _before _he was dragged down to Hell, that was never a possibility.

And then there’s the _handprint_.

Dean doesn’t remember how he got out of Hell—just remembers waking up in a box, digging himself from the Earth with his bare hands.

There’s a feeling in his gut that tells him the handprint is connected.

But, in classic Dean Winchester style, he does his best to ignore it. He throws himself into hunts with Sam, hustles pool like he never has before, drinks himself under the table in every town they stop at. It all helps to drown out the noise in his head to some extent.

But there’s one thing that doesn’t work. Doesn’t work at _all_.

The first time Dean tries to pick up a girl, it feels off from the start. He perseveres, though, because she’s clearly into him and surely he just needs a little bit of time to get his mojo back. Once a ladies’ man, always a ladies’ man, right?

_Wrong_.

They get all the way back to her place, and he’s kissing her, hands sliding up the inside of her shirt, and—

The handprint on his shoulder _burns_.

It burns like fire, like ice, like an _insistence _pressing on Dean’s mind that this is _wrong_, this is _unjust_, he should _not be doing this_.

He tries again, because there are few things in the world that can get between Dean Winchester and getting laid, but apparently this is one of them. The pain doesn’t lessen, and he quickly gets the message, making up a fumbling excuse and hightailing it back to his motel room.

What the _fuck?_

After that, Dean experiments. He flirts with girls, trying to find the point at which the mark starts to hurt so he can try to figure out what exactly is causing it. Kissing is okay, apparently, but as soon as his thoughts turn south and he starts using his downstairs brain… no deal.

For the sake of his experiment (so he tells himself), he tries flirting with guys as well. It’s something he’s done a little bit of in the past, so it does come back to him quickly, but—

It’s the same as with women. If anything, he hits the pain-point faster—because guys are much more direct than girls, he’s sure. It’s definitely not because it takes less time for him to seriously start entertaining ideas of fucking whoever he’s talking to.

There’s not much he can do apart from keep trying, although his attempts become more and more halfhearted, sometimes losing motivation halfway through chatting someone up. It’s not like he’s that much of a masochist that he _likes _having his fucking shoulder burn like someone’s pressing a hot brand against it.

And then, one night in a bar somewhere in bumfuck Missouri, Dean feels it.

It’s as though the hair on the back of his neck stands up, some kind of powerful electricity in the air that, from the way the other bargoers continue to mingle without reacting, he’s the only one to feel. He turns and glances around the bar, every one of his senses heightened now that he seems to have some weird spidey sense going off, and when he turns back, there’s a man standing at the bar beside him.

He’s wearing a leather jacket, his hair standing up at every possible angle, and the low light of the bar highlights impossibly blue eyes and a jawline so sharp that Dean wants to lick it.

They make eye contact, and the man smiles, all teeth and an intensity that makes Dean weak at the knees. “Hello,” he says, pitching his voice so that Dean can hear it over the other conversations happening around them, and even that single word is so deep and graveled and honey-rich that Dean is already half-hard in his jeans.

“Hi,” he chokes out, which is a little embarrassing considering he’s always had good game, even around jaw-droppingly hot people, but holy fuck, this guy is on another level entirely. “I’m Dean. You are?”

The man’s smile widens, and he angles his body more towards Dean—a sure-as-fuck sign that he’s interested. “Castiel,” he rumbles into the air between them, soft and intimate and so fucking hot that Dean might explode right here. “Pleasure to meet you, Dean.”

They don’t talk much. Castiel buys Dean a drink, and then they’re leaving, agreed upon with body language and touches and a few well-placed words like, “Yours or mine?”

Castiel’s apartment is nice, a little fancy, but it’s definitely not what Dean is paying attention to—not when Castiel closes the door after them and immediately pins Dean up against it with his body. His hands curve around Dean’s jaw, the back of his neck, and then they’re kissing and Dean would be powerless to resist even if he wanted to.

He’s achingly hard in his jeans, enough that Cas _must _feel it with how close they’re pressed (and the subtle rocking of Dean’s hips into his). They kiss until Dean can hardly breathe, and then pull back, and it’s only once Dean is curling his fingers into that leather jacket and pulling Castiel close again that he realizes—

His handprint hasn’t burned yet.

He only spares a second for that thought, because then Castiel is nosing in under his jaw, pressing his lips to Dean’s throat, and everything that isn’t _oh fuck that feels good _flies out of his brain.

The more Castiel kisses him, touches him, the more Dean spirals.

They end up in Cas’s bed, and _fuck _it’s been so long since he’s been with someone that he’s almost _frantic _for it. Castiel guides him patiently, holding back when he needs to and giving right when Dean feels like he’s going to explode. When he sinks down onto Cas, it feels fucking _perfect_, and his nails make half-crescents in the tanned skin of Castiel’s chest as he tries to hold himself together.

When they finally start to move, Dean knows there’s no way he can last. It’s been too long, and Cas is like a _drug_. Castiel rocks up into him, touching him all over with hands like fire and stretching up to kiss him. It’s _so good, so so good_, and Dean chokes out a warning as he feels himself nearing the edge.

Cas kisses him again, swallowing the choked-out pleas and needy whimpers, hands roaming over his skin. He fits his hand against the handprint on Dean’s shoulder, and for a second it burns white-hot—and then pleasure crashes over Dean like a wave, stronger and more intoxicating than he’s ever felt before.

The last thing he sees, before he passes out from the intensity of his orgasm, are Cas’s eyes glowing blue…

And then flickering black.

~

Dean wakes in his motel room.

He’s dressed in his pajamas, and perfectly clean—the only sign that last night ever actually happened is the slight twinge in his muscles when he hauls himself out of bed.

He pulls off his t-shirt in the bathroom, remembering how Cas had touched him, and stares at the handprint.

It feels the same, even when he pokes at it.

Nothing else about Dean feels the same.

~

Of all the places he’s maybe expecting to run into Cas again, a dilapidated barn in South Dakota is not it.

He’s here with Bobby, armed to the teeth, with no clue what they’re about to face but desperate for some fucking answers and ready to do whatever they have to to get them.

The barn doors blow open, sparks raining down on them, and then—

In saunters Cas, wearing that same fucking leather jacket, stubble on his jaw and a smirk curling his lips. He’s gorgeous, _radiating _sex, and for the first time since that night, Dean realizes who—_what_—he is.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, in that rumbling, sex-on-whiskey voice, and even now, Dean can feel arousal stirring in his veins. Just from a few fucking words.

Dean tightens his grip on his gun and clenches his jaw—he’s not going to fall under Cas’s spell, not a second time, no matter how insistently the mark on his shoulder is tingling. “Who are you?” he growls. “What do you want from me?”

Castiel’s smirk softens into a smile. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and the corners of his eyes crinkle—and then flicker to black.

“I saved you from Hell, Dean Winchester,” he says. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	42. Beach wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel sneak down to the beach during their reception.

They sneak away towards the end of the party, wandering hand in hand down the hill to where the waves lap against the shore.

Dean is unkempt and definitely a little drunk, his bowtie hanging around his neck and jacket probably lying on a chair somewhere. Cas isn’t much better—he’s a bit more clumsy with his feet, considering how Charlie has been plying him with champagne all night, and his smile is almost as bright as the moonlight that washes across the beach.

The night is warm, and they pause as they reach the sand, toeing off their shoes and leaning giddily on each other to pull off their socks.

The sand feels good beneath Dean’s bare feet, and he swings Cas’s hand in between them. He can’t take his eyes off his husband. Will he ever get tired of saying that?

Castiel looks back at him, his blue eyes almost glowing in the moonlight. There’s that smile on his face again, and Dean knows exactly how he feels: giddy, full of wonder and happiness the likes of which he doesn’t think he’s ever experienced before. Cas has been his for a long time, but now it’s official—in more ways than just signatures on a certificate and their two wedding rings.

No, his heart, his _soul_… they belong to Cas now, and Cas’s to him. There’s no one else—there will _never _be anyone else Dean could ever love more than he loves Castiel.

Cas steps closer, leaning in for a kiss. It’s just a quick brush of lips, light and playful, and then he’s spinning away again under Dean’s arm. His feet turn in the sand, free and bold, and without thinking, Dean leads him into their wedding dance.

It’s a lot less perfect than it had been a few hours ago, but still good, the moves so ingrained in them by this point that they can do it without thinking. They laugh as Dean fucks up a turn, as they bump hands changing holds, and it’s so carefree and easy that Dean’s heart feels too large for his chest—as though he’s going to burst from the sheer _joy _that’s been radiating from him all night.

They slide in the sand and mess up their moves and it’s still _perfect _because it’s them, it’s Dean and his husband and god, he feels so insanely giddy even thinking that. The dance comes to an end, the two of them eye to eye, chest to chest, and Dean can’t help it—

He tangles his fingers in Cas’s hair and pulls him in close for another kiss, the intensity of his feelings bubbling up in his chest. After everything they’ve been through, all the trials they’ve faced side by side, he knows there’s no-one else he’d rather have in his life.

It’s Cas.

It’s always been Cas.

“I love you,” he whispers, and Castiel’s eyes crinkle with his smile. They kiss again, soft and passionate and full of everything that they can’t possibly hope to encompass just with three little words.

“I love you too,” Cas whispers, because there’s never any harm in trying.

They stand on the beach for a long while, holding each other close and just _existing _together; two souls and one union, together beneath the light of the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	43. Samhain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean waits and hopes on the night of Samhain.

The moon sits high above the trees, casting silvered shadows across the small clearing in the middle of the woods where Dean Winchester stands, alone. The grass is damp against his bare feet, and his skin prickles with the caress of the cold night air that is so full of potential.

So full of _promise_.

For tonight is the night where the veil between worlds thins.

Tonight is Samhain.

And Dean is ready. Waiting. _Hoping_.

Aside from the fire that crackles quietly beside him, the night is quiet. Still. He’s picked a secluded part of the forest so that he won’t be interrupted—the celebrations and the bonfire back at his village are not suited for this, and he has no interest on joining in the festivities. Not this year.

Dean has thought all this through—has been thinking about it for a long time now. The seclusion, the fire, the sandwich and the mug of mead he has brought as an offering and now sit beside the fire, tempting his rumbling stomach. There’s no guarantee that all this will work, of course, for no-one can predict the _Aos sí _at the best of times, let alone on the night of Samhain.

But he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try.

There are so many emotions tangled in Dean’s chest, all inextricably intertwined, but he tries to focus on the hope that expands his lungs and has his heart hammering against his ribcage. He’ll stand here all night, if he has to.

He would wait forever. Would give _anything_, just for a little more time.

The night draws ever onward, the moon passing silently by overhead. In the forest around him, spirits stir and move, walking the line between this world and theirs.

And still, Dean waits. That pinprick of hope is still in his chest, poised to take flight, and he stares out into the silvered darkness for what feels like an endless eternity.

Until it happens.

And the light appears.

It begins as a single point, hovering in the air a few feet away; a tiny prick in the fabric of Dean’s reality.

His heart skips in his chest.

_Please_.

The light splits, stretching towards the ground and up towards the starlit sky. It’s glowing, bright-white, just like the hope expanding in his lungs, in his heart.

_Please, please, please_, _it has to be him_. He can’t breathe, his chest tight with giddiness, with anticipation, with _hope _and _desperation_.

The light burns, impossibly white, and then—

A figure steps out of the tear between worlds. A figure who’s tall, tanned, wide eyes bluer than the daytime sky and hair just as wild as Dean remembers. He still looks transient, though, more than a little transparent. As though he’s here, but _not_. The sole of his foot brushes against the ground for a moment as he steps from the light, as though deliberating, _deciding_.

And then he solidifies, before Dean’s very eyes, and his foot sinks into the grass. He steps his other foot to the ground, and the tear of light shrinks back down until it disappears completely, and it’s just them.

Just the two of them, face to face, beneath the silver light of the Samhain moon.

Dean’s breath hitches, his chest bursting with emotions he can’t name, his heart pounding giddily. He reaches out with one hand, but hesitates just before his fingers make contact.

The man looks down at his hand, then back at up at Dean. His eyes soften, and he smiles, taking a half-step forwards so that Dean’s fingertips bump into his chest.

He’s real, he’s _really here_.

Dean crumples.

“_Cas_,” he sobs through his smile, curling his fingers into the front of Cas’s shirt. They come together like two halves of a whole, falling into each other’s arms, and Dean isn’t sure if he’s laughing or crying as he presses his forehead against Cas’s.

Castiel reaches up, cups Dean’s jaw and traces his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. His smile is so bright, so wide, and Dean’s heart aches with the strength of his emotions.

“Hello, my love,” Cas whispers. “I have missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original [here](%E2%80%9CShow).”>here.


	44. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel find some intimacy after a hunt.

When it finally happens, it’s after a hunt.

They’re bruised and battered, their clothes spattered with blood and their skin not much better. Cas had insisted they spring for a slightly more upmarket motel room, since it’s just the two of them, and Dean has never been more grateful to be returning to a room that actually decent water pressure.

His body already aches as he steps inside, and he can’t wait to feel the beat of hot water across his shoulder blades. Cas has the same idea, it looks like, exhaustedly shedding his trench coat and hanging it up by the door. “Who’s getting the first shower?” he asks, his voice a tired rasp, and Dean’s heart brims with the force of his emotions.

“Me,” he says, bumping his shoulder against Cas’s. When he looks up, Dean gives him a smile that is all outward playfulness without any of the churning hope and tense anticipation currently tightening his chest. “Did you… maybe wanna join me?”

Castiel’s eyes widen, just for a moment—and then their corners soften and he smiles, soft and warm. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” he murmurs, closing the distance between them to press a quick, gentle kiss to Dean’s lips before continuing onwards to the shower.

This thing between them, it’s still so new, and Dean’s heart flip-flops in his chest every time he remembers that he doesn’t _have _to hide away his affection. He doesn’t have to be scared, not any more.

He can just _be_.

And so he follows Cas to the bathroom, following his instincts and his heart.

They undress slowly, with aching bodies and full hearts, exchanging soft kisses and murmured words—

“Feelin’ okay?”

“Move this way a little, Dean—“

“Don’t think we can save that shirt.”

And then they’re both naked, save for the blood and the dirt that still coats their skin. Cas is… he’s beautiful, soft and strong and tanned, and _fuck_, Dean is so goddamned lucky, and such a fucking fool for being so afraid for so long.

“_Dean_.”

Cas’s smile is affectionate, teasing, lips curled up at the edges and just a hint of teeth showing. “You’re overthinking,” he says. “I can smell the smoke from here. Just let go, sweetheart.”

He’d thought that he’d feel vulnerable, standing naked in front of Cas, but… strangely, he doesn’t. Standing here, with Cas’s eyes on him… he feels complete.

Cas takes his hand, pulls him gently into the shower after him. It’s small, not built for two grown men, but Dean would be pressing close to Castiel regardless of its size. Cas is warmth, and comfort, and he _understands _Dean. How his mind works. Where his thoughts go.

The water sluices over his back, the rhythm of it perfect for his aching muscles, and he lets out a soft sound as he presses his forehead against Castiel’s.

“Hey, I…” He clears his throat, closes his eyes. “I love you, you know? So fucking much.”

A second passes, and then Cas’s lips nudge against his own in a quiet, gentle kiss that speaks more than any words could.

“I know,” Castiel whispers. “I love you too, Dean.”

And there they stand, holding each other beneath the water, battered and bruised but so full of love, and _complete_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	45. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel pines.

Sometimes Castiel can’t take it.

It’s been so long, so many years of him constantly trying, in his own clumsy way, to navigate his relationship with Dean. He’s known from the beginning that pushing too fast or too far will destroy everything that he’s tried so hard for—to the best of his knowledge, Dean has only ever been in relationships with women, and Castiel doesn’t want to risk scaring him away if he’s too blunt or too forward.

But then, if he goes the other way, if he undershoots his intentions…

There’s no way Dean could ever know that he’s actually _interested_, could ever know the way that Castiel has felt about his all this time.

And that’s the balance that he’s fighting so hard with, that he’s _been _fighting so hard with ever since he first laid a hand on Dean’s soul in Hell and saw him for the person he truly is.

Because he’s in love with Dean Winchester, his Righteous Man.

And it still feels like Dean has no idea.

Well, that’s not quite true. He’s sure Dean has an inkling of some kind, or his own well-buried feelings—no one looks at their friend the way Dean has looked at him when they’re totally uninterested. But in all the years they’ve been doing this dance around each other, all the sparks they’ve shared and the moments where Castiel has thought, _this is it, it’s really happening_…

Nothing has ever come of it.

And that’s what hurts like a knife in Castiel’s heart.

His thoughts wind round and round in his head, even as his hands move without thinking, dismantling and cleaning his gun over and over just the way Dean had taught him so many years ago. It’s getting late, but he knows that he won’t be able to sleep even if he lays his head down. He’s spent so many nights this same way, just… _thinking_.

The silver-yellow mix of moon and streetlight filters through the dusty motel window and falls gently across Dean’s sleeping figure in the next bed over. His expression is slack, relaxed, innocent, lips softly parted and one hand curled loosely against his chest. Castiel’s heart aches as he thinks back to the beginning of their friendship—how he would stand and watch Dean sleep, just as he’s doing now. A guardian angel, already beginning to fall.

But now Castiel is human, and he can’t simply watch Dean sleep all night, just like how he can’t heal the bruise on Dean’s cheekbone or the heavy fall he’d taken onto his shoulder today—yesterday? It’s all blurring together now, in these early hours.

Like humanity, his soul aches for something he can never have, something forever out of his grasp. It hurts, it hurts more than he ever could have imagined, watching over all of humanity from his sheltered position up in Heaven. But now… now he understands.

He would do anything for love. For Dean. But there’s one thing he cannot do—can _never _do.

He cannot tell Dean how he feels.

Because no matter how much he wants to be with Dean, and how much he feels like his unresolved emotions are eating him alive…

He has a family here. He has a purpose. He has something to fight for.

And pushing Dean when he’s still not ready could mean risking everything.

So he continues to sit on his bed in the dim lighting of their motel room, fingers working over his gun and gaze rarely leaving Dean’s face, until the weight of his exhaustion becomes too much to bear, his thoughts stop eating at him just for a little while, and he’s finally, _finally _able to succumb to the thoughtless embrace of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	46. Storm angel Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has always been able to see Castiel in his purest form.

Cas has always been _blue_.

It’s not a sad blue. Not the kind that hangs around some of the older angels—the ones who have existed for many more millennia than Dean, who have experienced much and lost more.

No, Castiel is a vibrant blue, _electric_, the kind that is so bright sometimes that Dean cannot look directly at him.

Castiel is the colour of lightning.

It makes sense, of course. Ever since they were fledglings, Cas has always loved storms. Always been out in the middle of them, the rain soaking his wings and face turned up towards the sky. His eyes will close, his grin wide and brilliant, as he holds his hand up to the sky and lets the lightning spark along his fingertips when it arcs towards the earth.

Dean watches him, and watches his _blue_, so bright that it’s blinding.

Castiel is beautiful in his recklessness, in his wild, unfettered love and the raw power that crackles around him. The fact that Dean can see him—_truly _see him, right down to his purest essence—is a gift he hadn’t truly understood until the first time he had watched Castiel welcome a storm with open arms.

This time, they have come down to bring rain to the people: great deluges of it, soaking into parched soil and breathing life back into the land that has been so dead for such a long time. The humans weep and cheer and praise their gods, and Dean watches them shine yellow-gold-orange with the force of their joy.

But mostly, he has eyes for Castiel. Castiel who thrives beneath the iron-grey clouds and the lightning and the rumble of thunderclaps, rain running over his skin and eyes alight with the power of the storm. His wings arch up towards the sky, and Dean’s mirror him without thinking, aching to feel the touch of those feathers against his own.

Angels are not supposed to love.

They exist to serve God, and to serve humanity—not to be distracted by their own kind. But Dean…

Like the lightning, arcing inextricably towards the earth, Dean has long since been in love with the bright blue-white and reckless beauty of Castiel’s soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	47. Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean spend the weekend in a cabin in the snow.

“Babe, look. It’s snowing outside.”

Castiel hums from his place on the couch, turning away from his book for a moment to look out the window. It’s almost dark outside, but the firelight from inside the cabin illuminates the snowflakes falling just outside the window. “So it is,” he murmurs with a smile, setting his book aside and arching into a stretch.

This little retreat, a cozy cabin in the woods where it’s just the two of them, is exactly what they need. It’s warm and secluded and perfect for Dean and Castiel to spend the weekend together. His husband already looks so much more relaxed, now that Dean has gotten the fire going in the fireplace and lit some candles around the living room.

He knows that Cas likes romance, likes to be _wooed_, and by god is he going to make that happen this weekend.

“There must be, god, a couple inches out there already. Looks like we’re going to end up snowed in,” he jokes as he brings their two wine glasses over to where Castiel is stretched out along the couch. A place this rustic and homey is enough to make him break his beer preference just this once, especially if it’s in the cause of adding to tonight’s _ambiance_. “What are we going to do with all this time alone, hm? Just the two of us?”

Cas’s eyes had been closed while he stretched, but now he slits one open to glare playfully at Dean as he settles onto the edge of the couch beside him. “What, indeed. I don’t suppose you have some kind of plan in mind? You never have an ulterior motive, do you, Dean Winchester?”

“Me?” Even as he shakes his head, Dean can’t hide his grin. “I would _never_. I just brought you wine and created all this romantic mood lighting and pointed out the fact that we’re trapped in this cabin by the two inches of snow outside for _no reason whatsoever_.” He holds out Castiel’s wine glass and swirls it invitingly, wiggling his eyebrows.

_That _gets a laugh from Cas. “You’re insufferable,” he teases as he sits up, taking the glass from Dean’s hand and leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. “I love you,” he adds, his eyes soft in the flickering firelight.

There has never been any doubt in Dean’s mind that marrying Cas was the best decision he ever made.

“I love you too,” he whispers, ducking his head to capture Castiel’s lips in a quick, retaliating kiss. “Even when you’re wearing the ugliest sweater you could possibly find. You’re still fucking gorgeous.”

Cas looks down at the red-green monstrosity, then sips at his wine, lips curved into a smirk against the rim of the glass. “I don’t even remember where I got this,” he admits, his eyes sparkling teasingly. “I just packed it because I figured you might be more willing to take it off me considering how hideous it is.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and a surprised, delighted laugh bubbles out of him. “You’ve been scheming, huh? How could you, Cas, I am an _honest _man with _no _interest in seduction tonight.”

A blatant fucking lie, of course—Cas looks so hot in the flickering lighting, his hair mussed and eyes shining. They’ve been so busy in the lead up to this getaway that honestly, Dean’s surprised they’ve even lasted this long. Castiel plays along, though, giving a quiet sigh and examining the deep red colour of his wine—but there’s no way he can completely hide his smile.

“No interest in seduction?” he muses, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I suppose I can return to my book, then, if I will not be ‘getting any’ tonight.”

As he reaches for his book where he’d set it aside previously, Dean catches his hand to stop him. The bickering flirting is good, but he’s aching for the real deal with Cas, and now he laces their fingers together and leans in for a kiss. Castiel makes a sound against Dean’s lips, partly of surprise and partly of amusement, and melts into the kiss.

Cas has a wicked way with his tongue, and by the time that they pull apart to properly catch their breath, Dean has ended up straddling his lap, and their wine glasses have been safely (but clumsily) placed on the ground out of harm’s way.

Dean presses his forehead against Cas’s, who takes that as his cue to steal a few more quick kisses. When he nips at Dean’s bottom lip, Dean can’t help the groan that escapes him, and he curls his fingers into the front of that fucking awful sweater.

“Okay,” he admits, his voice low and rough. “I might have _some _interest in seduction tonight.”

That earns him an amused snort from Cas. “I think I can find some time in my busy schedule of reading and drinking wine to fit in some seduction,” he muses, and any retort Dean may have been able to come up with melts away when Cas’s hands slide up underneath the hem of his shirt, splaying over the skin of his torso.

Instead, he fits his hand against Castiel’s cheek and kisses him again, the two of them so much more than content inside the warmth and solitude of the cabin, while the snow continues to fall silently outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	48. Academy Awards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Famous actors Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak make their first debut as a couple.

The world gets the first inkling that something has changed when Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak step out of their limousine and onto the red carpet of the Academy Awards hand in hand.

Immediately, every single camera on the red carpet is turned towards them, word spreading like wildfire about this new development, as the pair pause at the end of the red carpet and Dean stops to adjust Castiel’s lapels.

“Do you think they’ve noticed?” Cas whispers, leaning in close to Dean’s ear. The chuckle he gets in response is rich and warm, and grounds Cas even as the media reporters gather nearby and start to clamor for their attention.

“Surely not,” Dean jokes back. His fingers smooth over the front of Castiel’s jacket, lingering there for a moment, and it feels like they’re in a little bubble of calm where the two of them can simply exist together, just for a second.

“You good to go?”

Making their romantic debut tonight had been a decision that both of them had made together, but it’s still more than a little daunting when Castiel can feel the pressure of the public eye already descending upon them. He’ll be okay, though. Especially with Dean by his side.

“I’m good,” Cas confirms, turning his head to press a quick kiss to Dean’s cheek—on the side facing away from the reporters, thankfully. “I love you,” he breathes, quiet enough that only Dean can hear.

He _feels _Dean soften more than he sees it, and the gently murmured, “Love you too,” is exactly what Castiel needs to bolster his courage and give him the confidence he needs to face the world.

“Let’s do this,” he says, straightening his back and turning to face the red carpet.

Beside him, Dean grins.

There are people shouting questions at them from all directions as they make their way along the carpet, and they get pulled aside for an interview almost immediately. Castiel can’t hide his amusement as the interviewer frantically looks through her cue cards, then seems to give up and tosses them aside with a slightly nervous laugh.

“Well,” she says, holding her microphone up to the two of them, “you’ve certainly made a statement here tonight. Many people have been speculating, but I suppose we can see from your entrance that there’s some substance to the rumors, and that the two of you are dating. Can you confirm that?”

Castiel gives Dean an almost-imperceptible nudge—he’s always been the smooth talker, the one who’s better at answering questions than Cas.

Dean, surely having predicted that Castiel would throw this one to him, takes it in his stride with a smile. “We sure are. It’s been… what, seven months, now?” He pauses and waits for Castiel to nod in confirmation, then continues. “It’s been really tough keeping it a secret, but… you know how it is, when you’re in the public eye. We wanted to make sure it was solid and that we would be able to support each other when we finally went public with it.”

“And what better time to do that than the Oscars, right?” Castiel chimes in with a joking tone and a smile.

The interviewer laughs and nods her agreement, gesturing briefly to the myriad of other media outlets hovering and waiting to speak with them. “It’s certainly got everyone flustered in the best possible way, that’s for sure. I won’t keep you long, gentlemen, since I’m surely not the only one who wants to talk to you, but before I let you go, I just want to ask one more question. I assume the spark began when you were filming for the movie you’ve both been nominated for tonight, _Profound_?”

She waits for them to nod their confirmation before continuing.

“Castiel, in the past, you’ve always said you’re a bit of a romantic. What was it that drew you to Dean?”

Cas blows out a breath, taking a second to turn the question over in his mind. There’s a lot he could talk about—little moments, starting on set and continuing outside of work, all the pieces of Dean that come together to make him the man that Castiel is hopelessly in love with.

But that’s far too intimate, and far too much detail, so instead, he says;

“It was like a—a spark. He’s so magnetic to be around. Ironically enough, it was like something out of a movie. Maybe not exactly love at first sight,” he says with a chuckle, and feels Dean lean reassuringly against his side, “but it was like… everything just fell into place. And now I couldn’t imagine where I’d be without him.”

The interviewer says something in response, probably making some closing remarks for the cameras, but Castiel doesn’t really pay attention to any of it. Instead, his focus is on Dean—the steady solidness of his presence, the quick squeeze of his hand, the smile that curls his lips when Castiel looks over at him, that feels like it’s just for him.

“You’re nailing it, babe,” Dean says quietly, lifting their entwined hands and pressing a kiss to Castiel’s knuckles. “Just a couple more, right?”

There’s a cheeky, teasing spark in his eyes, and Castiel gives him an affectionate eyeroll. “Just a few,” he says sarcastically, even as a new interviewer closes in on them.

It’s going to be a long night, but it’ll be worth it to not have to hide their relationship any longer.

And besides—as long as he has Dean by his side…

Castiel feels like he can take on the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	49. Soulmate searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes in search of his soulmate.

Everyone keeps telling Dean that his life is laid out before him.

He’s just graduated from KU, already has a job lined up, and is surrounded by friends and family in Lawrence—the town where he’s lived almost his entire life.

It would be easy to be content with that. With staying put, and setting down roots, and letting fate continue to sweep him along this path. He stays in his job, meets someone nice, starts a family right here in Lawrence and never leaves.

But no matter how many times people tell him that that’s a good aspiration to have, that he should be happy with that…

He just _isn’t_.

And so much of that has to do with the mark on Dean’s arm.

Some people have interesting marks—words or patterns or cool symbols. But Dean?

Dean’s soulmate mark is a line of frangipani flowers, a few inches long, running down the inside of his forearm.

He’d hated them, at first. Who the hell wants to have flowers permanently inked onto their skin? _Oh, what’s your soulmate mark? A bunch of flowers? What a loser_.

As time passes, though, he’s learned to care less and less. As he gets older, the people who see it are less likely to laugh, or to mock him for having such a prissy mark. He even meets a couple of other people with flower marks—not the same as his, always different types, but still. It’s close enough to make him feel like he’s not quite as alone.

Of all the people he meets, though… none of them are his soulmate.

And as time passes, Dean starts to realize that his soulmate isn’t in his small town after all. Or in Kansas City, or any of the other towns he visits. Which leaves him with a question.

What is more important to him?

He can stay here, where his life is normal and routine. Where his friends and family are, where he graduated from, where he has a job lined up. He can stay in _safety _and _comfort _and the things he knows.

Or…

Or he can make a new start.

There’s someone out there for him. Someone with love in their eyes and flowers on their arm to match Dean’s. Someone he can fall in love with, see the world with, live his life with. And he _knows _in his heart that they’re not here.

It’s a hard decision to make. The hardest of his life. But when he’s accepted into a postgrad program at Stanford, halfway across the country… it feels like a sign. It feels like the world opening up before him.

It’s a new beginning.

And so Dean packs his bags, says a teary goodbye to his family, and gets on a plane to California. His future is out ahead of him, and he’s reaching for it with both hands, meeting it head on and with a heart full of hope.

The world is so much bigger than him, and his small town, and his soulmate is somewhere out there.

He just has to find them.

~

On his first day at Stanford, as he’s trying to find his dorm block, he runs into someone.

He has blue eyes and wild hair and a smile that makes Dean’s heart stop as they catch each other, apologize, and then introduce themselves.

His name is Castiel Novak.

And there on the inside of his forearm, plain to see in the California sun, is a line of frangipani flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	50. Retirement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds a life after hunting.

Dean had never worried, when he was younger, about what would happen if he grew old.

He was a hunter. Hunters didn’t live to see life past thirty-five—maybe forty, if you were good at what you did. Once you knew about the things that were out there, there was no getting out of the life, and once you got old, you got slow.

You got dead.

And Dean had died. He’d died over and over but some motherfucker out there—not God, he’s not that stupid—is looking out for him, and Dean is one lucky son of a bitch, because he’d come back every time. He’s gotten so many new leases on life, and the way he sees it, it would be disrespectful not to use them.

And so he did what he hadn’t thought was possible.

He’d gotten out of the life.

Not for good, of course. He still provides advice to the younger, up-and-coming hunters. Still designs gadgets, weapons, anything that can help keep the kids from facing the same fate he’d faced with a little less luck on their side. He’s still a hunter at heart, but he’s old now, and his knees don’t cooperate like they used to, and so he basks in the glory days and contents himself with what he has now.

And honestly, what he has now is pretty fucking good.

He’d gotten a house, and a garden, and a simple life that is quiet but that he loves with all his heart. He’d gotten himself a hobby, and a job providing restoration services at the local garage.

Most importantly, he’d gotten himself a husband.

Once Dean had stopped hunting, everything had become… more clear. It’d taken some time to figure out what he wanted—and to figure out who he _was_, even, parts of himself so ingrained in the hunting life.

But once he had, he’d bought a ring, and he’d never looked back.

He and Cas are old, now. Two old men in their suburban house, living a regular life and being ridiculously happy with each other. Happy with the _simplicity _of everything, now that they don’t have to worry about saving the world. Sure, Dean’s husband is a grumpy ex-angel with millennia of knowledge that makes him think he knows exactly why his herbs in the back garden are being eaten, but Dean wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.

Well, he still makes jokes about Dr. Sexy, but he’s pretty sure that Cas knows he’s being fucked with after all the years they’ve been together.

And then some mornings, he wakes up, and he looks over at where Castiel is snoring quietly against his pillow, and he thinks about just how good he has it. How happy his mom would be to see him finally living the life she’d always wanted for him—one that was safe, and happy, and spent with someone he loves.

Because after so many years of following orders, and doing his duty…

Finally, Dean gets to follow his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	51. Motorbike Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets with Cas, but is not prepared for who he has become in his absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this art by c-kaeru.

Cas’s text had said to meet here.

Dean is pulled over on the side of the road, leaning against the Impala’s trunk with his arms folded. It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere, and the sky is beginning to darken with the onset of dusk, the late light turning the trees all around a deep golden-green. If someone was going to get the jump on him, a deserted highway in the middle of the woods would be the place to do it—which is why Dean’s fingers are constantly twitching towards the gun holstered at his hip.

Everything about this situation has Dean’s senses heightened and on red alert, but… it’s Cas.

Dean needs to see him. He doesn’t have a choice.

For a long time, the forest around Dean is silent. There are a few bird calls here and there, but apart from that, everything is eerily, hauntingly silent. The shadows continue to lengthen, the light fading into a charcoal-gold that dwindles even as Dean waits. No one’s passed by here in the hour that he’s been waiting, and he’s beginning to think that Cas has changed his mind—if he was even coming in the first place.

He’s uncrossed his arms, and is just about to push off the trunk and get back into his car, when he hears it.

The rumble of an engine, starting off quiet but getting ever closer, ever louder. It’s not a car—it’s too loud, too raw and powerful for that.

No, it sounds like a motorbike.

It could be a coincidence. Someone else travelling this backwater road, wandering across the country, or on their way to a rendezvous, just like Dean. But something about it doesn’t sit right. In his gut, his intuition tells him that whoever is on the motorbike…

They’re here for him.

His hand goes to the grip of his gun, and he waits as the motorbike approaches, his whole body tense and ready for whatever is about to happen. The roar of its engine gets louder and louder, until finally, it appears around the corner.

It’s black and silver and polished to a high shine, the light on the front a bright pinpoint in the rapidly-darkening surrounds. From here, Dean can’t tell anything about the rider, clad in denim and black leather as they are, and it puts him so on edge that he can _feel_the tension coiled in his muscles.

_Please keep driving. Please keep driving_.

The motorbike slows.

_No, no, no_.

Cas, he’s meant to be meeting Cas here. What if something’s happened? Who the fuck is this?

It could still be some random civilian driving past, just slowing down to have a look at the guy who’s pulled over on the side of the road. Dean stares straight at that black visor, willing them to keep driving. _Get the fuck away from here_.

But the motorbike continues to slow.

And then it stops, barely twenty yards away from where Dean is standing with the Impala.

His heart is hammering in his chest now, and he can only watch as the person kicks the stand down, leans the bike to one side, and dismounts. This close, at least the can tell that the person is probably male, from the way the clothes hug their body, but apart from that… nothing.

“Who are you?” he calls across the distance separating them. His fingers twitch towards his gun, and the guy just stands there. Staring at him.

Whoever he is, he doesn’t respond.

And then he steps towards Dean, his hands reaching towards his head.

Dean pulls his gun in a heartbeat and aims it towards the nameless, faceless man. His hands don’t shake, only because years and years of hunting have trained that reaction out of him, but that idea that something might have happened to Cas…

If it has, he’ll never forgive himself.

“Don’t come any closer!” he shouts, and the man stops. His hands pause halfway to his head, but once he’s sure he isn’t going to be immediately shot, he continues. He fits his palms against the sides of his helmet and pulls, pulls until it comes off, and—

And Dean’s brain stops.

Because the man underneath has blue eyes, and hair that’s been mussed up by the helmet. He’s sporting at least a few days of beard growth, and there’s a weariness in the lines of his face that hadn’t been there the last time Dean had seen him.

“_Cas_,” he breathes, lowering his gun.

He can’t quite reconcile Cas—_his _Cas, the one he’s known since that day in the barn—with _this _Cas. This Cas, who rides motorcycles like he was born on the back of one and now watches Dean with steel and reservation in his eyes.

For a long time, they just stand there opposite each other, as the shadows lengthen and night begins to fall. Dean doesn’t know what to say.

Castiel is the one who breaks the silence.

“Hello, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	52. Fortune teller Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his last months before his demon deal is up, Dean meets with a fortune teller.

When Dean sells his soul, he’s given a year to live. How the fuck does someone fit an entire lifetime into one year?  
  
He gives it his best short. Crosses things off his bucket list, gets too drunk too often, maxes out his cards, both fake and real, and drives too fast along the highway. It’s surprisingly easy to live life when you know your actions won’t matter in a year, eleven months, ten, eight, five.

When he has a month to go, Dean goes to see a fortune teller.

He was expecting an old lady, and a crystal ball, and lots of vague non-statements. It’s mostly a curiosity thing, at this point—he’s not actually convinced that he’s going to get any proper answers.

But when he enters the shop, it’s neat and clean and well-organised, and the person behind the counter is neither old nor female. He’s quite handsome, in fact, with his blue eyes and dark hair and the way he seems to quietly command Dean’s attention without even having said anything.

“Are you the fortune teller?” Dean asks, side-eyeing a row of books on the shelf to his right that seem, at first glance, to be legitimate spellbooks. What are the chances that he’s accidentally stumbled across someone who actually knows their shit?

Still, even if monsters and demons are real, that doesn’t mean people can tell fortunes. That doesn’t mean that fate exists, or has any kind of control over him.  
  
The man looks him slowly up and down from behind his counter. “I am the fortune teller, yes.”

Clearly, no-one’s told _this _guy that fate isn’t actually real—or dissuaded him from smoking two packs a day because _holy shit_, surely no one has a voice that deep and that attractive.

“And who might you be?”

Dean steps closer, and returns the up-and-down appraisal that he’d received. The joke’s on him, though, because the guy is even prettier up close. “My name is Dean,” he says. “Dean Winchester. I’ve come to have my fortune told.”

He can’t help but lift the corner of his mouth in a smirk as he says that, because it sound so stupid, but he sees no such expression reflected on the man’s face. The only acknowledgement that he gives of having even heard Dean at all is the way he slowly arches one eyebrow.

“Good to meet you, Dean Winchester. My name is Castiel.”

“Castiel… What, no last name? Just ‘Castiel’? Like Cher?”

The man blinks slowly at him, and it’s like those blue eyes can see right through to Dean’s soul. “Just Castiel,” he says finally, electing to ignore the rest of Dean’s dumbass statement. It’s probably for the best. “I do not charge for fortune tellings. Please.” He gestures to the stool standing next to the counter. “Take a seat.”

Dean frowns, and doesn’t move. “Don’t charge? What do you mean, don’t charge? That’s not what your website says, and I—“

Castiel holds up his hand, and Dean stops in his tracks.

“Like I said,” he repeats, and this time there’s the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. “I do not charge.”

And so Dean eyes him warily, and with more than just a hint of confusion, then sits down at the offered stool. He watches as Castiel takes his own seat opposite him, and they stare at each other across the counter.

A good minute passes of those blue eyes boring into his soul before Dean gets too antsy to keep still and quiet any longer.

“So how does this work?” he blurts out. “Do you have cards, or, like, a crystal ball or something?”

Castiel blinks at him—and then, slowly, the line of his lips softens into a smile.

“No cards,” he says quietly. “No crystal ball. I already know what your future holds, Dean Winchester.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. What has he seen? It seems foolish to hope that there’s some way of getting out of his one-way ticket to Hell, but… if there is, he has to know. He’d come here as a joke, at first, but if there’s actually something…

“Well?” he prompts, when Castiel stays silent. “What do you see?”

The silence between them is heavy and tense as Castiel rests his elbows on the countertop and steeples his fingers. It draws out, and out, until finally, it breaks.

“Lots,” Castiel says simply.

_Lots? __How the fuck can Dean’s future hold _lots _if he’s going to die in just a month?_

“What do you mean?” he asks, leaning across the counter while his brain goes _what the fuck, what the fuck _on a loop. “How can there be lots?”

Castiel arches an eyebrow, and Dean realizes too late that that’s not a thing normal people say. Still, Castiel doesn’t comment on it—just watches Dean, with those eyes that feel as though they’ve seen so much more than Dean could ever know.

“If I claimed to have all the answers in the world, would you believe me? Would you believe _anything _I said?”

Dean pauses, and lets himself think about that. Castiel must be able to see it in his eyes, because he hums quietly.

“Exactly,” he says. “I can’t tell you _what _I see, but I can tell you that there is much your future still has in store for you. There is a lot of noise, and your fate is not a simple one. But as long as you rise above it…” He trails off, a knowing spark in his eye, and Dean’s heart hammers against his chest.

“Rise above what?” he asks. “Above _fate?_”

But Castiel is already shaking his head.

“I’m afraid our time here is up, Dean. I have much else that I must attend to. Business to get in order, things to get into place. It has been a pleasure meeting you, and I am sure we will meet again one day.”

He stands, and offers Dean his hand. It’s clear he’s not going to get any more answers out of this weird, cryptic man today, so Dean stands as well, and shakes it.

When his palm touches Castiel’s, just for a moment, it feels like a frisson of electricity that races across his skin and makes his hair stand up on end. Something so much bigger and more powerful than him, more so than he could ever imagine.

And then the feeling dissipates, and Castiel is just a normal man once more, watching Dean serenely as he lets his hand fall back to his side.

Dean leaves the shop with more questions than answers, and certainly more questions than he’d begun the day with. He thinks about Castiel’s words all through the evening, and they keep him up into the early hours of the morning too. When he wakes, groggy from lack of sleep and the thoughts that won’t leave him alone, circling around and around in his head, he decides to go back to the shop.

But when he returns… He finds that there’s nothing there at all.

Just an empty lot, and an abandoned gas station.

~

A month later, the hellhounds come.

Dean’s last thought, as he’s dragged down to Hell, is—

_Castiel lied to me_.

There hadn’t been _lots_. There had only been a single month, full of fear and misplaced hope.

_He lied._

~

Dean spends forty years in Hell.

Is this the future Castiel had seen for him, the sadistic bastard?

His grief turns to anger, and to rage.

When he picks up the knife, he thinks of blue eyes.

~

When he’s pulled from Hell, Dean can’t comprehend what’s happening. Everything is light, and noise, and pain, and there are claws sunk deep into the meat of his shoulder. _Surely this is another form of torture_, he thinks.

And then he wakes up.

He wakes up, and he’s whole.

It takes so long to claw his way out of his own grave, but compared to the eons he’s spent in Hell, it feels like nothing.

He hauls himself out of the earth and collapses onto his back, breathing in fresh air for the first time in forty years and staring up at the sky.

His life has begun again… and there is more that his future holds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	53. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds that he likes researching much more when Cas is around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this art by Lizlee.

Research used to be Dean’s least favourite part of hunting.

The chase, the danger, the adrenaline of it all, _that’s _what he lived for. It was the moments when he was down in the thick of it, saving lives and fucking up monsters, that made it all worth it. Those were the parts made his blood sing, like that was what he was put on this earth to do.

Sifting through library archives and poring over newspaper cuttings or textbooks so old that they threatened to fall apart if he even looked at them wrong?

Not so much.

But he has to admit, research is _much _better with Cas around.

Firstly, back when he’d first come down to earth, the guy had been like a walking, talking encyclopaedia. If you asked him any question about just about anything, he knew the answer to it—unless, of course, it was something to do with the nuances of human interaction. In those cases, _literally anyone _would have better judgement than Cas.

But now that he’s got a lot more experience under his belt, researching with Cas is so much easier. He’s spent enough time with the Winchesters by now to know a lot more about the process, and working cases, and working _people_. He’s come so far from those first few hunts when he couldn’t even hold his badge the right way up.

He’s a valuable asset in and of himself, but when Dean finally bites the bullet and confesses just how he feels, the easy routine they’ve fallen into with research reaches a whole new level he’d never known could even exist. Because while previously they would sit opposite each other, pointing out things of interest and working as though they were on the same wavelength…

Now they work like two halves of a whole, knowing exactly what the other person needs or is looking for before they’ve even said anything. Dean doesn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times Cas has shown up with exactly the right book, or pointed out a key piece of information right as Dean realizes what they’re missing.

It might have something to do with new motivation and the fact that Dean often kisses him with gratitude whenever any of these instances occur, but hey. Whatever works.

But the best part of research, believe it or not, is not the way they finish each other’s thoughts and build pieces of the overall picture so seamlessly that it’s almost like they’re sharing brain cells.

No, the best part of research is that Dean gets to be _close _to Cas.

He gets to sit side by side with Cas in libraries, or at the table in the bunker, their elbows brushing as they work. He gets to lean his head against Cas’s shoulder when he’s bored or tired, lets Cas calm him down with gentle touches when he’s pissed off, watches Cas with what Sam has teasingly dubbed ‘heart eyes’ whenever he thinks Cas isn’t looking.

The best nights of all are when they get burnt out with research, though. Technically, they _have _to keep going, due to the fact that their cases are often pretty time-sensitive, but that just means that a few textbooks accompany them to the couch while they put on whatever Netflix show they’ve decided to binge that week in order to take a break.

Tonight, they’re watching ‘Nailed It’. If Dean has to look at another word right now he might explode, and so the textbooks Castiel brought with them are mostly for _Cas’s _benefit, and not Dean’s. He, at least, is still looking through them, pencil tucked behind his ear and his side warm against Dean’s where they’re curled up together on the couch.

Dean is totally happy watching people fuck up watermelon carvings and horrifyingly complex cakes, and leaving Cas to keep plugging away at the research. From the way Cas snorts at some of the jokes and makes quietly horrified sounds when the creations are revealed, however, he is splitting his attention somewhat.

And that’s how their night goes.

For all that he’s tapped out on research for the night, Dean still offers his thoughts when Cas asks him, hooking his chin over his boyfriend’s shoulder to peer down at whatever section of ‘Halos and Hellos’ he’s looking through. As the night wears on, he finds his eyelids drooping more and more, his head dropping down against Cas’s. By the time he’s nodded off a few times, Cas seems to decide that that’s enough, turning off the TV.

“Get some rest, Dean,” he murmurs, twisting back to press a quick kiss to Dean’s cheek before returning to his book.

They shift until they’re a little more comfortable, Cas still leaning against Dean’s chest as he continues to read. Dean drifts in and out of consciousness, for the most part. He’s partially aware of the moment Cas seems to give up on research and just leans back against Dean, books falling forgotten into his lap and the little blanketed nest they’ve made themselves on the couch. For a little while, they just doze—or Dean does, anyway.

He’s in one of his semi-awake moments when he hears someone shuffle out of the kitchen.

“You adorable assholes aren’t getting out of research _that _easily,” Sam grumbles—mostly to himself, by the sound of it. It’s the kind of thing Dean might comment on, or reply snarkily to, were he not already quickly returning to the dream he’d been having just a few minutes ago.

Before he fully drifts off, though, he does hear Sam comment, slightly louder;

“You don’t even _sleep_, Cas!”

Dean feels more than hears Cas’s quiet chuckle, and a few seconds pass before Cas whispers, “_Sshh_.”

Dean snorts softly, then lets sleep pull him under once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	54. Late nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas looks out for Dean on the nights when he's home late.

Dean hates working late.

Some of the best parts of his day are the ones he get to spend with his husband, and every second he spends stuck at work is a second of his time with Cas that’s being eaten into. The stuff he has to do at work is all stuff that needs to be done, and at least he gets paid for it, but really, there’s no amount of money that can replace the evenings he loves to spend with Castiel, curled up on the couch with a book or watching shitty Netflix shows together.

Whenever he comes home late, the house is dark and quiet, except for the porch light that Castiel always leave on for him. It’s a small gesture, but one that warms his heart nonetheless.

His husband is full of small kindnesses like that. There’s a cling-wrapped plate of food in the fridge that Dean heats up and eats lukewarm, and a fresh towel waiting for him in the bathroom. Even though he wasn’t here tonight, Cas has been thinking of him, and Dean’s heart twinges with just how much he loves the sappy motherfucker.

By the time he’s pushing open the door to their bedroom, he’s clean and fed and thoroughly exhausted, and more than ready to collapse into bed. In the faint moonlight that shines through the window, he can see the shape of his husband beneath the duvet, his back facing Dean.

One of the floorboards is prone to creaking, and Dean knows exactly how to step to avoid it, easing his feet down quietly over the floor so that he stays as silent as possible. He hates waking Cas when he comes home, as much as he loves to get even a minute to talk to him and ask about his day. It just feels selfish, especially with Cas’s little acts of kindness towards Dean on nights like these.

Try as he might, though, sometimes his attempts are pointless anyway. Dean slides beneath the covers like he’s auditioning for Mission Impossible, and still, Cas shifts, rolling over sleepily to face Dean.

“Hello,” he whispers, his voice sleep-roughened and slivers of blue shining in the dark.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs back, giving up on his attempt and pressing himself close to Cas. It feels good to be able to wrap his arms around him and just hold him. “I’m sorry I’m home so late. Thank you for dinner.”

Cas hums quietly, tucking his face in against Dean’s chest. “’s okay,” he mumbles. “Missed you. Make it up to me with breakfast tomorrow.”

Dean can’t help but laugh, dropping his chin to press a gentle kiss to the top of Cas’s head. “I miss you too, and I will definitely make it up to you, don’t you worry.”

Hi promise earns a content sigh from Castiel, and the two of them settle into a comfortable position, curled around each other. “I love you,” Dean whispers into Cas’s hair, and Cas hums quietly against Dean’s chest.

“Love you too. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	55. Astronaut Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel thinks about the one person who keeps him returning to Earth.

Castiel’s favourite thing to do is watch the sun rise.

Up here, above the planet, everything is calm and serene. Morning doesn’t really exist in space, but no matter what, the sun rises again and again, and it never fails to be any less beautiful. Watching the dawn break, watching the light wash over so many millions of square miles down on Earth… it’s an incredible feeling.

There are billions of people down there, and Castiel gets to watch the light touch every single one of them.

When he’d first applied to become an astronaut, he’d thought that the most incredible thing about it would be the weightlessness, or the exploring, or the sheer adrenaline of having your body catapulted out of the atmosphere in a rocket. He’d done it for the adventure, and for the fact that the earth has always seemed too _not enough _for him. Castiel wants to see what’s beyond it, out among the stars. He’s always been like that.

And then he’d begun his training, fresh-faced and eager to get into a spacesuit and get _going _already…

And he’d met Dean.

Dean, an engineer from Mission Control, smart as a fucking whip and entrusted with the complex calculations and seamless functioning of the rockets.

Dean, whose passions lie out among the stars, but whose feet are and always will be planted firmly on the ground.

Dean is beautiful, all green eyes and sharp wit and a smile that could melt a thousand hearts. He’s funny and clever and _so _passionate about what he does that Castiel can’t help but get lost in his words whenever he talks about his work because while he may not understand the meaning behind them, the intensity is _captivating_.

Their work doesn’t overlap much, what with Castiel training for his first mission and Dean working to make sure his rocket will stay in one piece, but they get glimpses of each other. Glimpses turn into occasional meetings, and then not-so-casual run-ins that Castiel definitely doesn’t try to orchestrate, and then finally, Dean asks him out on a date with a twinkle in his eye and a knowing smile curving his lips.

Dating Dean is just as perfect as Castiel had known it would be.

They spend as much of their time together as possible, because Cas leaves on his first mission in three months, and they have to make the most of it. Neither of them had been entirely sure what would happen between them when it came time for him to leave, but one thing becomes clear to Castiel as the date of his mission looms ever closer.

For all that he had wanted to leave, to be out among the stars by himself and seeing things no human ever has before…

Dean makes him want to come back.

When the day comes for him to leave, it’s not the triumphant departure he’d pictured. He’s not overwhelmed with excitement—_mostly _excited, yes, because it’s always been his dream to go to space and here he is—but instead there’s a little tinge of sadness amongst the adrenaline.

Dean isn’t in Ground Control today. Instead, he’s at the launch pad with Castiel, by his side as much as he can be in his final moments before liftoff. They get a moment to say goodbye to the people they love, and they hold each other close as though it would take all the world to pry them apart.

But eventually, they have to separate. One last goodbye, one last kiss, and then Dean is gone, and Cas takes his place in the rocket.

Adrenaline, excitement, but also sadness.

Longing.

Because as Castiel rockets towards the stars… he knows that he’s leaving a piece of his heart behind on Earth.

~

His radio crackles to life, right on time, and Castiel smiles as he floats over to it.

_This is Ground Control to the ISS, come in, Novak._

The voice is achingly familiar, and Castiel’s heart twinges as he looks down at the planet where the sun continues to stretch across its beautiful landscape.

“Novak to Ground Control,” he replies, thinking of the one person down there who’s enough to keep him returning to the ground every single time. “Hello, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	56. 100 word drabbles (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short drabbles from the profound100 game run on the [Profound Bond discord](https://discord.gg/ARS3D3C), continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Panic. 2: Hands. 3: Heat. 4: Schwellenangst. 5: Lock. 6: Spice. 7: Read. 8: Soft. 9: Crack. 10: Scent. 11: Bandage. 12: Wet. 13: Forgotten. 14: Silence. 15: Ragequit. 16: Memory. 17: Cat. 18: Roast. 19: Empty. 20: Flurry. 21. Tempt.

1\. 

It’s not until Dean is in his forties that he properly has his ‘bisexual panic,’ as Sam so helpfully calls it.

Sure, he’s checked out dudes in the past—fantasized about TV characters, maybe flirted with a few real people here and there—but actually having to face his feelings is different. Surely he’s too old now, has left it too long.

Eventually, he talks to Cas about it on a clear night, both leaning against the hood of the Impala and looking up at the stars. He tells him about everything.

As it turns out, it’s never too late.

2.

Dean’s ASL TA leans against the lecturer’s desk, speaking as he signs. Usually, such a deep, gravelly voice would be more than enough to distract Dean, but this time…

Dean can’t stop staring at Castiel’s hands.

Their movements are so fluid, his fingers moving almost without conscious thought, effortlessly and mesmerizingly forming each sign. _God_, it’s hot.

When Dean’s gaze flicks up to Castiel’s face for a moment, Cas is watching him, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile even though his signing never falters.

Dean swallows and shifts in his seat.

He’s so _royally _fucked.

3.

On nights like this, the heat is unbearable.

It’s been sweltering all day, and now they’re lying in bed with the bedroom AC up as high as it will go. Cas is usually all kinds of snuggly, but right now there’s as much space between them as possible, because the damn guy is like a space heater.

Still, Dean misses his husband’s touch.

He reaches his arm out across the mattress, until his fingertips brush Castiel’s. It’s no full-body spoon (which he vehemently denies enjoying) but it’s enough.

And for the rest of the night, that’s where they stay.

4.

“…Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

“It’s you. It’s… it’s really you. Holy shit. I thought you’d—”

“I’m fine, Dean. Just tired. You’re not an easy man to find, and it’s been a long trip.”

“Yeah, of course. Do you want to come in? Sam and I were just having dinner.”

“Thank you, Dean. I—”

“…Everything okay?”

“Yes. Of course. I’m just—suddenly I’m not feeling well.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the salt line built into the threshold, would it?”

“…Fine. _Fine_. You got me, _Winchester_, well done.”

“You son of a bitch. Get out of him.”

“No.”

5.

There’s a lock on one of the bunker doors that wasn’t there before.

Dean isn’t dumb enough to fall for the layer of salt, or the tiny devil’s trap painted onto the metal lock. Cas doesn’t play, and Dean doesn’t want to have to go to his angelic husband with third-degree burns, or get himself stuck to the lock and have to wait for Cas to bail him out.

Nonetheless, he’s insatiably curious about what’s hiding on the other side.

And Cas… well, it’s entertaining to watch Dean try so hard to get into an empty room, he must admit.

6.

“Needs a little more spice. Phillips, thicken this damn sauce. And for fuck’s sake, where is Winchester?”

Castiel finds Dean in the locker room, stripping off his leathers. “You’re late,” he growls, folding his arms.

Dean looks up, smiling that smooth smile, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Sorry, boss, traffic was nuts. You know how it is.” 

Caught in that green gaze, Castiel feels his cheeks flush. Dean Winchester is tardy but talented and sharp and _so _beautiful.

Cas clears his throat. “Just make sure you catch up.”

Dean holds their eye contact, and winks.

“_Yes, chef_.”

7.

Dean teaches himself to read Enochian.

He spends hours poring over textbooks, studying for weeks until finally he can read the stupid lines. It’s a big victory, but now that he’s got a grasp on the language… He has to confront the even bigger challenge.

The thing Dean wants to write has been on his mind for a long time—years, maybe. So many feelings, thoughts, that he’s never had any way to express.

But now… now he has the right words for it. He just has to _do _it.

And so he sits down, and starts writing.

_Dear Cas._

8.

Every month, Dean helps Cas preen his wings.

The grey-black feathers are soft as he gently combs his fingers through them, working his way along the arch of Cas’s wing. The fact that Cas trusts him with this, is totally happy to relax on their bed while Dean touches the most vulnerable parts of him… it’s incredibly humbling.

And then the way Cas’s wings arch up into his touch, the way he gasps and groans whenever Dean touches a particularly sensitive spot…

Well, if Cas’s wings eventually end up messier than when they started, that’s no-one’s business but their own.

9.

“_Cas_.”  
  
Dean’s voice cracks around the single syllable, and he swallows, his throat dry. The wooden floor is hard against his knees, but the discomfort doesn’t compare to the pain in his chest. It’s been so long since he had to pray, but now, with Cas gone…

What other option does he have?

“Cas,” he says again, shakily. “I… I hope you’re listening. You _have _to be listening. Every single time, you’ve come back, and this _can’t _be—”

Dean cuts off. His heart aches indescribably.

“We need you, buddy.”

He exhales shakily. The single tear falls.

“_I _need you.”

10.

The first time he stays at Dean’s, Dean washes his clothes.

It makes sense—it had been raining the night before, and they’d been blown into his apartment muddy and flushed and unkempt. Going home in dirty, rain-damp clothes the next morning is a walk of shame Castiel is not prepared to do.

And so Dean washes their clothes, and they share a quiet morning together, until it’s time for Castiel to leave.

Even then, he spends the rest of the day with the scent of Dean’s laundry detergent in his nose, and their parting kiss lingering on his lips.

11.

Dean has always been stoic. Stubborn.

When he gets cut by a demon’s knife, he grits his teeth and ignores it. When he’s thrown by a ghoul, he gets back up again. When he narrowly manages to fend off the teeth of a werewolf, he insists that he’s fine, his face pale.

But when they get back to their motel room…

That façade crumbles.

Dean always lets Castiel take care of him, bandaging his wounds and kissing away his lingering shakiness. He’s desperate for Cas’s touch, his words, letting it fill the cracks in him until he’s whole once again.

12.

They make it out.

They’re scraped and bloody and exhausted, but they make it.

Cas lags behind as they hightail it back to the Impala, and Dean pauses to wait for him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as they meet.

“You good?” he asks, and Castiel nods, his face pale.

Sam is already in the car, waiting for them, but as they get closer, Cas stumbles, almost falling. The _sound _he makes is pained, _vulnerable_, and Dean’s heart lurches.

“Cas?” His voice wobbles, and when he presses a hand against Cas’s chest to steady him— 

It comes away wet.

13.

Dean Winchester lives a normal life.

He has a little house in the outer suburbs, works at a mechanic shop just down the road. He’s happy.

…Until he gets home from work one evening to find a single feather lying on the ground in front of his door.

It’s almost as long as his forearm, and he picks it up with careful, curious hands. It’s dark, and soft, and seems to shimmer in the low light. It’s _beautiful_.

And as he turns it over in his hands, marveling at it…

He can’t help but feel that there’s something he’s forgetting.

14.

After Cas leaves, the bunker feels too large. Too empty.

“I think it’s time for me to move on.”

It’s been days. Dean hadn’t realized how different everything would be without him. None of his usual distractions work.

“I think it’s time for me to move on.”

He finds himself gravitating back to the spot where it happened. Where Cas turned and walked away.

Where Dean _drove _him away.

Those words keep ringing in his ears, even though it’s just him.

Alone.

_I think it’s time for me to move on._

And so he sits, by himself, in the silence.

15.

There are many upsides to being the one to introduce Cas to a whole bunch of new human things, but there are also some unexpected downsides. And one of those downsides is that Castiel is really, uncannily, _annoyingly _good at video games.

_Especially _Mario Kart.

“You _motherfucker_,” Dean shouts as Cas zooms past him on Rainbow Road for what feels like the hundredth time. “How the _fuck_?”

He has to watch as fucking _Toad _crosses the finish line in front of him, then throws down his controller. “I give up,” he mutters.

Cas just grins. “Better luck next time, Dean.”

16.

Dean has a box that he keeps under his bed.

It’s full of photographs, of memories. Some are from when he was little, and some are from his travels with Sam, but most of them…

Most of them are of Cas.

They’re all snapshots of good days, and moments Dean wants to remember with his family.

On the night of the wedding, he pulls the box out. He and Cas look through the photos together, a little drunk and giddily happy, and they take a new photo—one of their first as husbands.

They’re forever making new memories, after all.

17.

The first thing they do, when they move in together, is adopt a cat.

It’s something that Castiel has wanted to do all his life, and that is finally an option in their pet-friendly building. When they bring her home, Cas is overjoyed, never straying far from her side as she explores the apartment. Her name becomes Zeppy—since Cas bestowed Dean with naming rights, as long as he agreed to getting a cat in the first place.

Dean has resigned himself to a lifetime of allergy meds, but…

It’s more than worth it, if it means Cas is happy.

18.

For someone who claims not to care much about Thanksgiving, Dean puts a lot of stress and effort into it. He spends most of his time in the kitchen, compulsively checking on his roast turkey and timing the preparation of all the different foods down to the minute.

It’s Castiel’s job to keep him settled. He’s not allowed to help after the smoke alarm fiasco of ’16, so he does his duties in emotional support. “It’s going to taste great, Dean,” becomes his mantra, but he doesn’t mind.

As long as Dean’s happy, he’s happy.

_That’s _what he’s thankful for.

19.

For someone who claims not to care much about Thanksgiving, Dean puts a lot of stress and effort into it. He spends most of his time in the kitchen, compulsively checking on his roast turkey and timing the preparation of all the different foods down to the minute.

It’s Castiel’s job to keep him settled. He’s not allowed to help after the smoke alarm fiasco of ’16, so he does his duties in emotional support. “It’s going to taste great, Dean,” becomes his mantra, but he doesn’t mind.

As long as Dean’s happy, he’s happy.

_That’s _what he’s thankful for.

20.

“Don’t you get bored of making snowflakes?”

Dean peers over Cas’s shoulder, their wings bumping where they lie atop the cloud. Cas forms another one, then releases it with the next flurry.

“Not really,” he says, watching them go with a smile. “They’re all different, you know. You wanna try making one?”

He teaches Dean, who focuses his grace very hard, tongue poking out between his lips. Finally, the snowflake materializes—a little lopsided, but totally unique and completely perfect. It’s beautiful, more so because it’s Dean’s.

“Well done.” Castiel grins, and Dean smiles back, wide and proud of himself.

21.

Dean has never been tempted by crossroads deals. Too shady, too unpredictable. He can solve his problems himself.

But one night—one stupid, drunken night—he gives into curiosity. He’s never met a crossroads demon, and so, in the moonlight, Dean assembles a box and buries it beneath the crossroads near his motel.

He’s expecting a woman—a hot brunette, perhaps.

What he gets is a man with blue eyes, and sex hair, and an intense gaze that Dean can’t look away from. Dean finds himself captivated. Inexplicably drawn in.

He had never expected to end up making a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Panic](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186668527584/its-not-until-dean-is-in-his-forties-that-he). 2. [Hands](http://https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/186948162554/deans-asl-ta-leans-against-the-lecturers-desk). 3. Heat. 4. Schwellenangst. 5. Lock. 6. Spice. 7. Read. 8. Soft. 9. Crack. 10. [Scent](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188168348424/the-first-time-he-stays-at-deans-dean-washes-his). 11. [Bandage](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188317352159/dean-has-always-been-stoic-stubborn-when-he-gets). 12. [Wet](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188341909739/they-make-it-out-theyre-scraped-and-bloody-and). 13. [Forgotten](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188341923854/dean-winchester-lives-a-normal-life-he-has-a). 14. [Silence](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188892449894/after-cas-leaves-the-bunker-feels-too-large-too). 15. [Ragequit](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188949196549/there-are-many-upsides-to-being-the-one-to). 16. [Memory](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/189124679139/dean-has-a-box-that-he-keeps-under-his-bed-its). 17. [Cat](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/189329438699/the-first-thing-they-do-when-they-move-in). 18. [Roast](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/189358430944/for-someone-who-claims-not-to-care-much-about). 19. [Empty](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188892449894/after-cas-leaves-the-bunker-feels-too-large-too). 20. [Flurry](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/189451403439/dont-you-get-bored-of-making-snowflakes-dean). 21. [Tempt](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/post/188878914094/dean-has-never-been-tempted-by-crossroads-deals).


	57. Fae Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can always hear the music of the Fae.

_deep in the meadow_

Ever since Dean was young, the forest has always called to Dean.

_under the willow_

The _Fae _have called to Dean.

_a bed of grass_

He can hear their song. Just faintly, lingering at the very corners of his consciousness, but it’s there.

_a soft green pillow_

It’s always there.

~

When Dean was little, he’d wandered away from his home.

In the way that toddlers often are, he’d been tempted by warmth, and sunlight, and the butterflies that danced across the garden and away towards the trees. They were so pretty, and he’d wanted to get close to them, to see what it was like to be one.

And so he’d toddled through the grass, following those little coloured spots that seemed always just out of reach, fluttering away from his grasp. They’d taken him through the grass and into the trees, until he’d turned around and realized, too late, that he could no longer see his little house.

He was entirely alone in the forest. There were no sounds. No people. Just him, and the trees, and the light dappling the forest floor.

And that was when he’d first heard it.

The song.

It was beautiful, more beautiful than anything he’d ever heard before—and that included the lullabies that his mother sang to him to get him to sleep. It sounded like more voices combined in more harmonies than his little brain could possibly hope to imagine.

For a long time, he’d just stood there, listening.

And then he’d ventured further into the forest.

Eventually, the trees gave way to more grass, to a meadow that was bright and sunlit and warm. He felt like he was being watched, but not by bad people. No, this watching felt like when mother watched over him while he slept. Like when father gave him a tiny wooden sword and laughed as he swung wildly at the air.

This watching felt _safe_.

He had made his way through the daisies, until he’d gotten tired—it had, after all, been an awfully long way for his little legs to carry him. And so Dean had laid down in the grass, in the middle of the daisies and beneath the watchful gaze of the people who he could not see but knew to be there, and he listened to the song.

And he slept.

When he woke up, he was back in his own bed.

~

His parents had known that something was amiss. That something had called their son from their home that day, enticed him out into the forest.

_The Fae are dangerous_, they had said. _You are not to go out there again_.

_Who are the Fae?_Dean had asked.

They had not answered.

And because they did not answer, Dean resolved to find out the answer for himself.

~

From that day onwards, Dean has always heard the song.

Most of the time, it’s quiet, but sometimes it’s loud, so loud that Dean can hardly concentrate. Can hardly hear himself. And it’s always, _always _coming from the forest.

He goes out there whenever he’s able—whenever he can slip away from his parents and his chores, and go in search of that music. Because even though his parents and the folklore tales all insist that whatever is out there is dangerous, Dean knows that it’s not. Not towards him, anyway. He can hear them, hear them calling to him, and that _means _something.

It means he’s special.

~

Dean grows up hearing it, that same melody over and over again, and he grows up searching the forest. He knows almost every inch of it by now, every tree and burrow and hill. He knows the meadow—has walked that meadow more times than he can count, looking for answers to questions he doesn’t even know how to ask yet.

He sleeps in the meadow.

While many other memories of his childhood have faded, that one remains stark and clear in his mind. He knows he’d fallen asleep in the grass, amongst the daisies in a place that had felt so safe and welcoming and serene… and he’d woken up back in his bed.

But it’s never happened again.

He wants it to—_gods_, does he want it to. Anything for the chance to catch a glimpse of the beings who tease him with their watchful gazes and their beautiful music, but that stay so tantalizingly out of reach. He’s never even caught a _glimpse _of the Fae, let alone gotten the chance to properly meet one.

And then, one summer afternoon, that changes.

A long time has passed since the first time Dean had been guided out into the forest. He’s older now, has filled out across his shoulders, is almost of age. He’s more than old enough to make his own decisions, and his parents can no longer stop him from venturing into the forest. He’d snuck out there before, but now he spends so many of his waking moments there.

Watching.

Waiting.

He’s in the meadow when it happens.

His feet are bare, sunk into the grass, and his face is upturned towards the sun, his eyes closed. The song is loud today, unusually so, and Dean revels in the way the harmonies within it feel like a caress across his skin. This secluded spot is just for him, and so is the song.

The golden light of the sun glows even through his closed eyelids.

When he opens them, there is a man standing in front of him.

Well, not a _man_, per se, and in more ways than one.

He seems to be about Dean’s age, if the Fae age in the same way humans do. There’s a glowing quality to his blue eyes, though, and a point where his ears should be rounded, and there’s a simple silver circlet sitting atop his mess of dark hair.

He’s beautiful, and for the first time in… well, since Dean can remember…

The song changes.

_here your dreams are sweet,_

_and tomorrow brings them true,_

_here is the place_

_where I_

_love _

_you._

The Fae reaches out his hand to Dean, palm up, and there’s a gentle smile curving his lips.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and his voice sounds like that same music. “I have been waiting for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	58. Professor Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean struggles to find his class on his first day at college, and an attractive stranger helps him out.

Dean doesn’t know what to expect, when he finally goes to college.

As an older student, he already feels way out of his league, and it’s taken years of convincing from Sam and his friends to even start applying, let alone getting accepted and actually _attending_. And yet, here he is, sitting in his bedroom the night before classes begin and trying not to have a freaking panic attack.

He’s thirty years old, for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t be getting this anxious about _college_. He’s been successfully co-running a business with Bobby for over ten years now—something that is no easy feat—so if eighteen-year-olds can handle the stress of college, then so can he.

But that reasoning still doesn’t seem to help.

So instead, Dean is doing everything that he can to prepare for tomorrow. He knows his classes, his books, has read through past syllabi and even managed to find some old exams online. Currently, he’s looking up every single one of his professors on the different rating websites that he hadn’t known existed until Sam had asked whether his professors were notoriously hard-marking, or more easygoing.

_Total hardass._

_Easy assignments, basically gives you free marks._

_Plays favorites._

_Cute af._

The last professor makes Dean pause. Professor Novak has more ratings than any other professor Dean has checked out tonight, all of them good and few of them about his actual syllabus or teaching style. Instead, almost every single review is some variation of comment on his looks.

_Makes it so hard to focus in class!_

_Totally. Bangable._

_Hands down the hottest professor at KU_.

After a little while, it makes Dean a little bit annoyed. He’d come here looking for information he could actually _use _to prepare himself for classes, and instead, the reviews have provided him with no help at all. All it’s told him is that college students are a bunch of sexually frustrated young adults—there’s no way any professor can be _that _hot.

Grumbling to himself, Dean closes his laptop, and goes back to poring over his timetable.

~

Dean’s heart is in his goddamn throat as he makes his way through the campus buildings to his first lecture hall. It feels like everyone here is so much younger than him, and he’s sure that he sticks out like a sore thumb. If he can make it through his first day without making an idiot of himself, then that’ll be a win in his books.

It’s only natural, then, that he runs headfirst into someone as soon as he steps foot inside the building.

They bounce off each other, Dean stumbling back a step into the group of students who’d been trying to come in the door after him and who give him mildly irritated looks. _Fuck_, he thinks, _I’m already screwing things up_. The least he can do is check that the person he bumped into is okay.

It’s not hard to figure out who that is—the guy is collecting his satchel from the ground where it had fallen, brushing himself off, and then he straightens up and looks at Dean with impossibly blue eyes, and Dean swears his heart stops.

The guy is maybe a few years older than him, dressed in a pair of neatly-pressed slacks and a charcoal vest that hugs his body _perfectly_. Even without the dress sense, though, the guy’s eyes and sex hair are captivating, and any hope Dean had of eloquence dies in that moment.

Instead, all he can get out is, “Shit, I’m so sorry!”

The guy stares at him for a long moment, eyes wide as he pauses halfway through tidying himself up, and then he smiles at Dean. Fuck, if he hadn’t been attractive before…

“No harm done,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble that immediately has Dean’s imagination running off on wild and dirty tangents. “Are you okay? You looked like you were in a hurry.”

_Ask him for help and risk further embarrassment, or shrink into the floor and struggle to find his classroom on his own?_

It’s probably not a good idea to show up last and flustered to his first class on his first day.

“I’m actually looking for my class,” Dean tells him. “I’ve got Intro to Physics with Professor Novak? And I have no idea where I’m going, this shit is so overwhelming, man.”

The man’s gaze doesn’t waver from Dean’s face, but his lips quirk up into a smile, and there’s a hint of something almost akin to surprise in his expression. “I’m heading that way, as it turns out,” he tells Dean. “I can show you the way.”

And so they fall into step together, and Dean tries to figure out exactly what to say to one of the most attractive guys he’s seen in a long fucking time. “I’m Dean, by the way,” he eventually says, as they make their way along the corridors. “Dean Winchester.”

“Cas,” the guy says, that smile widening and a spark in his eye that suggests he knows something Dean doesn’t. He doesn’t elaborate.

It’s only a minute before they stop outside a door, letting a handful of other students go in before them. “Well, here we are,” Cas says. “Good luck with your semester, Dean.”

It’s clear that that’s the end of their not-so-conversation, and Dean is desperate to get his number, desperate to see him again, but in the split second he has to make his decision, he wusses out. “Thanks, Cas,” he says with what he hopes is a convincing grin. “Will I see you around?”

Castiel doesn’t reply—just smiles that knowing smile, gives him a wink, and pushes open the door ahead of Dean.

_He must be another student_, Dean thinks excitedly, following him in. Maybe there’s hope for them after all, considering how Cas seems to be at least a little bit into him.

As he steps into the lecture theatre, though, Cas doesn’t go up into the seats like the other students. Instead, he makes his way towards the desk at the front of the room, drops his satchel onto it, then continues on to the whiteboard.

_Castiel Novak_, he writes in elegant script, and Dean’s stomach sinks. He can only stand there and stare as Cas—no, _Professor Novak_—turns to face his students. “Welcome, everyone,” he says, his voice resonating throughout the hall. “Please take your seats. You may refer to me as Professor Novak, or Castiel, if I like you.”

_Castiel. But he’d introduced himself to Dean as ‘Cas.’_

Maybe there’s a tiny spark of hope after all.

Dean rushes to find a seat, aware of Cas’s eyes on him as the rest of the class settles. “I hope most of you are here because you are interested in the discipline of physics,” Castiel says drily, “and not because of what you’ve read on ‘Rate My Professor.’ Regardless, I do hope you enjoy my class.”

And as Dean settles in for his first lecture and tries not to freak out about the unexpected turn his first day at college has taken, he realizes he was wrong about one thing.

Castiel Novak is _definitely _hot enough to have earned his positive reviews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.


	59. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of Christmas ficlets written for my friends.

**\- frost.**

On the night that Dean drags Castiel down to the ice rink, the stars are out and it’s cold enough that their breath mists frostily in front of their face.

As soon as Cas had confessed that he’d never actually been ice skating before, despite admiring the sport for a long time, Dean had wasted no time in getting him down here. It’s the ultimate romantic date just before Christmas, and not that Dean will ever admit it to anyone, but the sap in him can’t wait to spend tonight on the ice with Cas. Whether it’s full of fumbling, or whether he gets to watch Cas nail ice skating and be unfairly hot while doing so, it’s going to be perfect.

And it’s worth it for the way Cas’s eyes light up once they see the rink, beautifully lit with Christmas lights and full of skaters. “Is that where we’re going tonight?” he asks, and Dean just grins and nods.

“How’s that for a Christmas present, babe?"

Cas doesn’t answer—just pulls Dean in by the lapels of his coat and kisses him, then makes a beeline for the skate hire.

_Yeah_, Dean thinks, watching Cas go with a smile on his face and warmth in his chest, _this is going to be a perfect night._

**\- grinch.**

For some reason, Dean hasn’t been able to get into the Christmas spirit this year. They’ve had hunt after hunt after hunt and a run of shit luck, and the last thing he wants to do right now is go out and brave the crazy malls looking for presents, or have to listen to Sam sing off-key Christmas carols while hanging up decorations around the bunker.

Instead, he stays in his room, watching Netflix and flicking through the books he’s already read a thousand times, and just generally being a bit of a Grinch.

Cas is, of course, the one to snap him out of it. He’s been out on a hunt of his own the last two days, and Dean has missed him like crazy, but it had only been a one man job and Cas had insisted that he and Sam stay back to get some rest.

He’s been holding out to see his boyfriend, but when Cas comes in, there’s a frown on his face that Dean immediately wants gone.

“Dean? Is everything okay? Sam says you’ve barely left your room today?”

Clever Sam. If he’d said that to Dean, he wouldn’t have come out of his room for a _week_, but from Cas…

He sighs, and shuffles over on the bed to make room for Cas to sit. “I’m just so tired,” he mutters, leaning against Cas and letting his eyes close. “And I missed you while you were away.”

He feels Cas chuckle, the sound washing over him and settling into his bones. “I know you’re tired,” Cas says quietly, “but we all are. This is a chance to unwind. To spend some time with your family. And I’m back now, and I’m not planning to go anywhere.”

Dean makes a grumpy sound that’s mostly just for show at this point, and buries his face more in Cas’s shoulder. But Cas knows him too well—all he needs is a tiny bit more coaxing, and that comes in the form of:

“I’ll let you pick the Christmas movie tonight.”

And suddenly, Dean is back on board with the whole Christmas thing.

**\- reindeer.**

On Cas’s first proper Christmas with the Winchesters, they give him the full experience, which means going to check out Santa’s village. It’s a novelty thing, mostly done as a joke, but Cas…

Cas enjoys it. He has a long conversation with Santa, Sam buys him a personalized stocking (that doesn’t at all melt Dean’s fucking heart, not at all), and takes a particular shine to the reindeer.

“Yes, yes,” Dean overhears him saying to one of them, completely seriously. “You’ve noticed a drop in carrot numbers this year? I’ll be sure to pass that onto management. Your name? Blitzen? Very respectable.”

Dean can’t help but grin to himself and watch as Cas talks quietly to the reindeer. Somehow, it always manages to surprise him—both how kind and patient Cas can be, and how seriously he takes things, as well as the fact that… well, he’s still an angel. He’s still got angel powers, and the fact that he chooses to use them for reindeer carrot negotiation is very Cas.

God, Dean loves that fucking angel.

**-mistletoe.**

Castiel should have expected this.

It’s the first Christmas that he and Dean are spending together as a couple, and so extra care has been taken—well-considered gifts picked out, decorations hung all over the bunker, Christmas songs playing when Dean thinks no one can hear.

And, of course, the mistletoe.

Castiel is walking into their bedroom while Dean is leaving it, the two of them sidestepping each other, when he finds himself stopped by a hand on his chest.

“Not gonna give me a kiss?” There’s a grin on Dean’s face as he points up to where a sprig of mistletoe has been taped to the doorframe.

It’s part of tradition, Castiel has been told, and he’ll never pass up an opportunity to kiss Dean, so he obliges and leans in for a kiss. It’s worth it to see Dean smiling even wider when they separate, and he can still feel the kiss lingering on his lips even once they’ve gone their separate ways.

And if sprigs of mistletoe start to pop up with more frequency around the bunker, Dean always insisting they carry through the tradition with a cheeky grin, well. Who is Castiel to complain?

**\- star.**

It’s cold out. Dean has the collar of his coat turned up against the winter air, beanie pulled down snug over his ears, and Cas is equally bundled up.

The snow crunches beneath their boots, pristine and shining silver in the moonlight. Castiel had wanted to come out here, to this untouched snowscape, and Dean can never say no to him.

“Look,” Cas says, coming to a stop. He points towards the sky.

At this time of year, it’s usually too cloudy to see the sky. With Cas’s limited grace, though…

Well, it can work small miracles.

The stars shine high above them, the sky completely cloudless. As they watch, a shooting star leaves its mark across the sky, and Dean feels his breath hitch in his chest. Cas’s gloved hand bumps against his, and Dean takes it wordlessly, giving it a quick squeeze without looking over.

For a long time, the two of them stand side by side in the snow, just watching the stars.


	60. 1920s bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is enamoured with the singer at his local bar.

The smell of cigarettes and perfume lingers in the air like smoke, and the music that curls through the bar is just as sinuously beautiful. It’s smooth, slow, unfairly sensual, and almost all of it can be attributed to the man standing up on stage, crooning into the microphone like he’s making love to it.

He’s all disheveled beauty and bright green eyes in the dim light, the top button of his waistcoat undone and his shirtsleeves rolled up. It looks as though his hair was once perfectly combed, but now it’s been pushed into disarray by restless fingers that caress the microphone stand and rake through that short brown hair as he sings.

Castiel, sitting in his private booth towards the back of the bar, feels his own fingers itch with the compulsion to run his fingers through that very same hair.

The man can sing beautifully—Castiel has visited enough times to know that. Has memorized his performance schedule by now. It’s the one weakness he allows himself.

A weakness that takes the form of a roguish, yet self-deprecating smile, with capable hands and a voice that, Castiel is sure, would sound beautiful begging his name every night.

The name of his weakness is _Dean Winchester_.

He has no ties to any organization, nor is he involved with the police. Castiel is not stupid. He has done his research. Dean Winchester is merely a man with the voice of an angel, and who has caught the attention of a very influential man indeed.

Castiel stays throughout Dean’s entire set, watching from the privacy of his booth and imagining all the wicked things he would like to do to such a beautiful man. He would treat Dean well, of that he’s more than certain, but he’s never been one to chase the objects of his desire. No, he prefers to watch, and to let them come to him if they are so inclined.

He wants them to _want _him, and then he gives them what they desire.

When Dean finishes his last song, the final notes dissipating into the dimness of the bar, Castiel applauds along with the rest of the crowd. Dean bows quickly, humbly, flashing his charming smile to the adoring audience, then disappears from the stage.

Castiel finds that he is already counting down to tomorrow night.

But, as it turns out, there is no need.

“Boss? You’ve got a visitor.”

Castiel looks up from where he’d been staring down at his cigarette case, running his thumb compulsively along the worn edge as he thinks. One of his guards is standing at the entrance to his booth, and beside him, hands tucked into his pockets and a casual air about him as if he _isn’t _about to meet one of the most renowned gangsters on the whole of the east coast…

Is Dean.

It’s a surprise to see him, but Castiel is very good at not showing what he’s feeling. Instead, he flips open his cigarette case, puts a cigarette between his lips, and nods towards the other side of the booth.

He’s not sure if Dean was expecting to be turned away, because something in him lights up when Castiel motions for him to sit. He does a reasonable job of containing it, but it’s clear to Castiel in the curve of his smile, and the eager way he slides into the booth.

“Cigarette?” Castiel asks, offering the box to Dean. He doesn’t miss the way his throat bobs when he swallows, or the fact that his fingers fumble just slightly when he selects a cigarette.

Dean leans forward with the cigarette in his mouth and his eyes fixed on Castiel, who flicks open his lighter and obligingly lights Dean’s cigarette for him. He takes in a drag as Castiel lights his own cigarette, then lets the smoke curl out from between his lips in a way that looks unbearably attractive and has Castiel already half-hard in his slacks.

“You’ve been watching me,” Dean points out quietly. Those green eyes never look away. “Every night I perform. You’re always here.”

Castiel gives a tiny shrug of one shoulder, exhaling his own smoke into the air and watching as it fades away. “You are very talented.” He pauses, makes sure he’s holding Dean’s gaze and attention, then says, “And very attractive.”

Dean’s breath hitches. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

_Perfect_.

“I could say the same about you,” Dean says, and his voice is pitched lower now, private and intimate. “My name’s Dean—but I guess you already knew that.”

He leaves the sentence hanging, clearly seeking information from Castiel. He’s happy to oblige—and he wants Dean to know which name to be begging later tonight.

“My name is Castiel.” He lets himself smile, and is pleased by the way Dean’s gaze falls to his lips for a moment. Such a beautiful man, and he’s all Castiel’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show some love to the original here.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo) if you'd like to be notified when I post/update.


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